


Different Strings

by CatBones



Category: Metallica
Genre: Alcohollica vs Metal Church: The Drunkening, Angst, Blame Lars's behaviour on the cocaine, Bobby Schneider Patron Saint of Cockblocking, Cockblocked Part Two Electric Boogaloo, Cruel and Unusual Hazing, Emotional Support Hammett, Extreme Plot Twist Chapter, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, James Hetfield Patron Saint of Blueballs, Kirk just wants a fucking nap, Lars is a fucking Gremlin, M/M, Newkid Breakpoint has been reached, PTSD Flashback Chapter, PTSD Part 2: The Suffering Continues, Sad Chapter (TM), Shit has officially hit the fan, Slow Burn, Substance Abuse, hazed and confused, tags will be added as chapters are uploaded, the calm before the storm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:47:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 61,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23728543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatBones/pseuds/CatBones
Summary: After the events of September 27, 1986, Jason Newsted's career is launched into first orbit after he's hired to fill the rather large  boots of Metallica's former bassist. Little does he know that he's walking himself into more than just the limelight and straight into unprocessed grief, the cruelest of hazings, and having to survive weeks of touring with a band existing at the bottom of a Vodka bottle.As he's subject to trial by fire (and booze, and drugs, and repressed trauma), he can't help but think that he'll never be more than just a Burton stand-in. Jason's world is turned upside down, however, when he has an unlikely encounter with James that begins to unravel into something entirely different.
Relationships: James Hetfield/Jason Newsted, James Hetfield/Lars Ulrich (past/implied), Jason Newsted/Lars Ulrich
Comments: 92
Kudos: 157





	1. 12.1.1986

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys. Here's a big fat slow-burnin' motherfucker of a fic that first started as a single vignette in the Winter of '18 and slowly snowballed into the emotional disaster that it currently exists as. This is absolutely a study of what happens when the grieving process is rudely interrupted by life and all the bullshit that comes with it, so there's a lot of nasty sensitive topics that get touched upon--namely repressed trauma, unprocessed grief, and unhealthy coping mechanisms (there is so much alcohol in this story that I got a hangover just from writing it). Timeline starts right at the beginning of the Canadian leg of the Damage, Inc. Tour after all of the fun let's-break-in-Jason shenanigans have started and oh boy--there's a lot of hazing. If this wasn't a trauma fic then it could absolutely second as a hazing fic.
> 
> This fic is entirely dedicated to the World's Best Beta Reader and my partner in slime-n'-grime for life, @slime_qween, who is constantly inspiring me to continue to write and has provided an unending stream of support for my life-destroying obsession with Metallica (and yet actively continues to enable me. And I promise I'll finish that other fic. You know the one). Love ya, buddy. 
> 
> For all the cool Metallicatz who are here to read the textual equivalent of a carnival ride that you can't get off of: Enjoy.

**12.1.1986 – New York – Some Dive Bar along the I-87**

“Just our fuckin’ _luck_.”

_Of course_ the tour bus is having transmission issues.

_Of course_ the shitty rental bus they hauled out of whatever Midwest scrapyard it was rusting in is half the size.

_Of course_ watching Kirk and Lars argue over bunks is causing James’s stomach to spit up some pretty sour memories, because two months prior Cliff and Kirk had been doing the exact same thing before their bus set off for Copenhagen, and when James sees Lars pull out the pack of playing cards he decides he’s had enough. He isn’t ready to regurgitate those kinds of feelings just yet. He may never be.

Before Lars can even cut the deck James rises from his seat and rips them from the drummer’s hands, slapping them down on the bar and eliciting a string of curses from the tiny Dane. James just isn’t in the mood for any of this shit today.

“Bunks have been decided. You get the single bunk in the back. Kirk gets the top bunk. Newkid and I share the bottom.”

The animosity in Lars’s expression dissolves as he leans back and takes a pull from his Heineken, satisfied with knowing he’s won. He gives his bandmate a cocky grin before polishing off the rest of his beer.

“Have fun spooning for warmth with Newkid tonight, it’s gonna be a long cold drive from here to Canada.” Lars salutes James with a tip of his empty bottle before excusing himself from the booth and leaving the vocalist to brew in his own frustration.

Kirk is completely silent; he’s not taking this well—none of them are—and all he musters is a sheepish grin overlayed on a face that’s seen too much too fast. He silently pulls some bills from his pocket and closes out his tab with the bartender before he, too, goes back to the bus.

And that leaves James and Newkid.

“Sorry about that,” James turns to Jason as he fumbles for change in his jacket pocket. “Lars can be fuckin’ weird sometimes.”

Jason is dismissive of the apology, shrugging it off as if he’s done this before. He hasn’t.

“You guys are going through a lot,” he rationalises, rising from his seat. He pays both his and James’s tabs and heads back to the bus while the vocalist is still awkwardly digging for cash.

* * *

The truth is, they’re _all_ going through a lot.

Everything about Metallica happens at a breakneck speed and Jason isn’t sure if he can keep up.  
From Lars’s passive-aggressive antics to James’s snap decisions and Kirk’s indifference, on top of an itinerary that will have them grinding out shows nearly every day for the entire months of December, January, and February, the bassist feels like he’s being torn in a thousand different directions all at once. Life on the road is a whirlwind and between all of the booze, drugs, and fighting, it’s hard to comprehend what the hell is even going on half of the time.

Jason sure as hell can’t.

Which is why, when Kirk decides he really doesn’t want to sleep on the top bunk that night and would rather sleep on the disgusting floor of the tour bus, Jason is visibly confused.

“Cliff was on the top bunk,” James states flatly, bottle in hand. Jason doesn’t prod any further than that. He doesn’t need to.

He understands.

He lets James pour him another shot instead.

* * *

Jason is even more confused, however, when he’s awoken that night by pressure on the side of his bed, as if someone were leaning on it.

“Scoot your ass over, Newkid.”

If the distinctive grit to the voice isn’t enough of a giveaway to its owner’s identity, then the smell of the Stolichnaya on James’s breath definitely is. Still slightly drunk on Vodka himself, Jason does as he’s told and moves over for the vocalist.

“Dude, the hell are you doing? There’s a perfectly good bunk above me.”  
“Your memory is _shit,_ Newkid. I ain’t sleeping in any top bunk.”

Jason recalls the image of Kirk curled up on the floor and decides it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie, instead opting to move over another couple of inches to accommodate the long and wiry frame of his bandmate. James sidles up next to him, their shoulders brushing, and struggles to get comfortable.

“This bed ain’t big enough for the two of us,” Jason cracks, trying desperately to lighten the mood. Instead, he’s met with no response. He can just barely make out James’s gaunt silhouette in the moonlight filtering through the window, just faint enough for Jason to see the bottle of vodka clutched in James’s hand, and he hears the familiar pop of a cap and the vocalist chugging it down at an impressive rate.

_Damn. Poor fucker must be hurting pretty bad._

“You alright there, bud?”

Admission isn’t James’s strong point and Jason realises this, so instead of pushing his luck when he’s met with silence he just sighs and elbows James, who passes him the bottle. He takes a long pull and decides that if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, and once his nose and lips are feeling pleasantly numb again he passes the bottle back.

The two men sit and drink for a while, not knowing what time it is or how late it’s gotten. They can feel every bump and pothole in the road and take to leaning into each other for support when they’re tossed around, until Jason finds himself with James resting his cheek against the top of his head. His heart quickens and suddenly it feels like his mouth is full of sand, not because he’s never been this close to someone—quite the opposite, really—but because this is the first time James has ever _allowed_ him to get this close. Jason’s dealt with so much of James strutting around like a huge cock, firing off at random times, _Newkid this! Newkid that!_ , picking fights and shit, and it’s a shock to his system. This is the quieter, softer side of James that he never lets anyone see, and something about it makes Jason’s heart hurt. Not because this is what James has been reduced to, but because this is who James _could_ be.

The air in the bus is frosty and Jason can see a delicate rime clustering on the windows when James finally breaks the silence.

“Do you think he can see us from…wherever he is?”

It takes Jason a moment to realise who James is talking about. He can’t think of the right words, so he says nothing.

“Do you think he knows how much we miss him? How much he left behind?...How much of us he took with him when he went?”

When Jason feels something wet dripping onto the top of his head, he rolls onto his stomach, positioning him between James’s legs, and presses himself against the blond. He gently uncurls the bottle of Stolichnaya from calloused fingers and sets it aside before wrapping his arms around the singer’s skinny waist. He doesn’t care how their chests are pressed flush or how bare skin is touching bare skin, or how much the booze may be influencing his actions or not--he just wants James to know that he’s not alone.

He just wants the hurt to stop and maybe, just _maybe_ he can help. And maybe James can help Jason stop hurting in the process, too.

“ _Don’t go. Don’t leave us, too.”_

James’s breath comes out shaky and uneven and he’s openly sobbing now, so Jason presses in harder and melts into the blond. Skinny fingers twist themselves into the bassist’s hair and the two stay locked together for what seems like centuries before Jason drifts off into a deep sleep, partially drunk on vodka, partially drunk on James’s warmth. 

Moments before the singer slips into unconsciousness, he finds peace in the closed gap between himself and the smaller bassist curled against him. James’s fingers lightly card through the sandy brown hair and he manages a weak smile before sleep finally takes him.


	2. 12.2.1986 -- Early AM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are Saturdays good days to update? I feel like Saturdays work well.  
> And, as previously mentioned, this fic is gonna be a slooooow burn. It'll get spicy soon though, I promise.  
> For now, please enjoy Lars being a complete Goblin. He's my favourite to write.

**12.2.86 – Early AM. En route from New York, NY to Montreal, QB**

James wakes up to a pounding migraine and a heavy weight on his chest.

He doesn’t remember much from the night before and what he can recall is patchy at best, but what he _does_ know is that someone is sleeping on his chest, draped across him haphazardly like a sheet. A mop of dusty brown curls and a toothpick frame allows James to add one and one together, and soon he’s feeling like he can’t breathe.

_Oh god fucking dammit, it’s Newkid._

James heaves out a sigh and leans his aching head back into the pillow, silently counting to ten as he tries to piece together just what the _hell_ happened to have led to this. Out of everyone on the tour bus, why the fuck did James have to go and land himself in the same bunk with Newsted?

Oh, _right_. It was his decision, after all.

Knowing very well he has nobody else to blame but himself—and perhaps the Vodka, too—James lets himself sink back into the mattress as he allows resignation to take over. Snippets of images are finally coming back to him one at a time—he specifically remembers Lars being a prick, Kirk getting too shaken over the prospect of sleeping on the top bunk, drinking _way_ too much Stolichnaya—and he starts attempting to make sense of them despite the proverbial writing on the wall.

He also remembers the crying.  
_Ah. Yeah. That. Well, fuck me, I guess._

James is coming to terms with how much of a blubbering ass he made of himself the night before and is ready to take the heat for it—sure, by no means is he happy about turning into such a sorry sap, but it is what it is—however, he has no idea of what Jason is going to think of him now, and that uncertainty opens up a vacuum right in James’s gut. He has a finely tuned image of exactly how he wants to be seen not just by the public, but by his bandmates as well, and it’s very possible that he just pissed it all down the drain.

Jason stirs and James can’t stop himself from bringing a hand up to that moppy curtain and brushing a handful of hair aside to get a better look at his bandmate’s face. He studies it like a map, committing the bassist’s strange mix of soft curves and sharp angles to memory. Now that he thinks of it, he doesn’t mind this closeness, as strange as it seems. Of course, this isn’t something that James is going to actively pursue…but it’s not something he’s going to refuse, either, and admittedly the thought makes him just a little uncomfortable. However, he makes a mental note to thank Jason later for just _being_ _there_ for him when he needed it the most and not blowing things out of proportion. James shudders at the thought of what waking up would have been like if he had crawled into Lars’s bunk— _been there, done that._

The singer is pulled from his contemplations when Jason finally stirs, groaning as he grasps for the blankets that have been kicked down to the end of the bunk.

“Mornin’, Sleeping Beauty.”

Jason lifts his head and cracks open an eye, the remnants of sleep still clinging to his face, and for a moment he almost seems glad to see James. That is, until the realisation that he’s been _sleeping on James_ hits him and it’s almost painful watching the light in his eyes be snuffed out and replaced by total panic. Jason bolts out of bed and nearly goes ass-over-tit in his mad dash to the toilet.

It wouldn’t be touring if there wasn’t at least one member of Metallica making the morning salutations to the porcelain god, and James laughs inwardly as he pulls himself from the comfort of his bunk to go make sure Newkid isn’t dying over the toilet. For some reason, he finds a bit of relief in knowing that it’s the hangover and not his face that sent the bassist reeling to the bathroom.

“You look like fuckin’ garbage, Newkid.”

The sight of Jason doubled over the toilet, half-naked and shivering isn’t a pretty one by any means.

“Thanks. I feel like fuckin’ garbage,” comes the bassist’s curt reply.  
“Welcome to life on the road,” James chirps as he quietly closes the toilet door, kneels behind Jason, and begins pulling stray hairs back from his bandmate’s face. “Get used to it.”

The look Jason gives James from over his shoulder is truly disgusting, especially since it’s being paired with the contents of his stomach now dripping from his chin, and James can’t help but snort at the sad state his bandmate is in.

“Damn, dude, you’ve got this shit _everywhere_. It’s even in your hair. Gross.”

Jason doesn’t have time to spit out a comeback because he’s too busy retching, and James just laughs softly as he holds his hair back for him.

“Y’know, you’ve got a shit ton of hair, kid. I’m not gonna go as far as saying you got _too_ much because there’s no such thing, but all the bits below your ears are like, right in the splash zone.”

Jason, now caught in the midst of a dry-heave, opts to answer James with a friendly middle finger.

“Cute. But I’ve got a point here; you ever think of just, y’know…shaving everything from the ears down? Getting one of them fancy undercuts? You’d be like a reverse Cronos from Venom; instead of missing all of the hair on the top of your head, you just remove it from the bottom. Intentionally,” James gives a snort and a laugh, unsure of whether Jason is actually listening or if he’s just talking to hear himself talk at this point. “Besides, I think it’d look really good on you. Better than if I tried doing it.”

“…I’ll think about it,” Jason grinds out between heaves and James responds by giving him a hearty thump on the back.

“Atta boy, Newkid. Now are you finished turning yourself inside-out or what?”

Jason is interrupted by someone beating on the toilet door and bitching for them to get out before he can even respond, to which James beats on the door back in reply.

“Go piss in a can, Dutch Boy! Shitter’s occupied.”

There’s a grumble about “not even being Dutch”, but the banging ceases and Jason can’t help but rasp out a laugh at Lars’s expense. His stomach is feeling a little less queasy now, too, and although he’s still pretty weak, he manages the strength to at least straighten his back so he’s not hunching over the toilet anymore. James, however, still has a tight hold on his ponytail and, admittedly…it’s kind of _doing_ things to him. The thought crosses his mind more than a couple times that the singer’s tight grip on his hair would be a lot more enjoyable if it were under different circumstances, but the mental images it produces makes Jason’s stomach feel a bit fluttery and he must have looked like he was about to gag again, because James asks if he’s alright.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m fine.”  
“Just checkin’,” James shrugs as he hooks Jason’s arm over his shoulder and hitches him up on his feet. The bassist is weak, but finally standing—although on quivering legs—but there’s no way in Hell James is about to leave him covered in puke to fend for himself on the toilet floor. Not with Lars around, at least.

“You know what’ll fix you right up?” The singer begins to suggest and Jason can just tell from his tone that he’s up to no good.  
“What?”  
“Some hair o’ the dog, man.”  
“Sorry, not in the mood for Nazareth,” Jason smiles weakly as James walks him out of the bathroom, and the vocalist fills the bus with brassy laughter.

* * *

If you know Lars Ulrich personally, then you'd know that he has a problem with literally everyone and _everything_ , and, at this particular moment, Lars has decided to have a problem with Jason and James.

He’s perched on the armrest of the couch like a stone gargoyle, knees drawn up to his chest and smacking on some variant of unpalatable Danish candy when he locks his gaze onto his bandmates as they stumble from the bathroom.

“Did you two have a nice time?”  
“Not right now, Lars,” James makes the mistake of dismissing the drummer and that’s the defining moment when Lars decides Hetfield has made his shit-list. He pops another candy in his mouth as he needles James with his stare.

“What’s wrong? Are the lovebirds hungover after too much late night eloping?”

The glare James sends Lars from across the bus could split a rock which only makes the drummer press on, knowing that he’s getting a rise out of him.

“So what’s the deal? Is Newkid really so helpless that you have to wipe his ass for him?”  
“He drank too much, alright?”  
“Yeah, and by the looks of it so did you. And what’s up with the sleeping arrangements?”  
“It’s a smaller bus, dude. If you used your fuckin’ eyes you’d be able to see that there’s four of us and three beds, and one of them is a top bunk.”  
“Whatever. No more of this ‘sharing bunks’ crap. It’s gay as shit.”  
“You would know,” there’s a vicious edge to James’s voice now that Lars chooses to disregard, and he gives James a pointed look.  
“Yeah, I _would_ know, Het.”  
“Would you just fuckin’ lay off it, man?”  
“You lay off it, James. You’re being fuckin’ weird and I don’t like it, alright?”

The way Jason shrivels into James makes something in the vocalist want to rip Lars’s throat out and if he wasn’t already being tested by his hangover, god be damned, he’d probably do it. Instead, he snags the bottle of Jägermeister sitting on the counter and relegates himself back to his bunk, Jason still in tow. If this is going to be how the day’s bus ride to Montreal is gonna be then fuck the hangover, he’s getting his buzz on _now._ As soon as Jason is dumped on the bed and out like a light, James quietly seats himself at the foot, taking deep sips from the liquor bottle and stewing in his anger.

“No fucking on the tour bus, you two,” Lars snaps from the lounge and James is ready to shatter the bottle in his grip, his hands are clutching it so tight.

_Fuck Lars, Fuck touring, Fuck today._

The drummer normally isn’t this high maintenance but chances are, since leaving New York and crossing the Canadian border—resulting in Metallica clearing themselves of all substances harder than Vodka and the rogue joint that could be hidden in a pack of cigarettes—Lars hasn’t had a bump in at least two days, and the comedown is turning him into a real ass.

Withdrawal is a bitch. James would know; he has his own demons, too.  
Which is exactly why he’s about a quarter of a bottle deep into the Jägermeister already. He has people to ignore and pain to numb.

And life goes on.

So, as much as he’d love to stomp over and punch his little Danish friend square in the jaw, James resigns to sidling up to the window, curling his knees up to his chest, and staring out at the desolate snowscape as the bus plows its way towards Montreal. Every few minutes or so he glances over to the sleeping form of Jason, curled up tightly beneath the blankets. Their drunken conversation, the closeness, the crying, and the comfort James found in their new bassist is still fresh in his memory and constantly playing on repeat. He doesn’t know why he’s so hung up on what happened the previous night, but he’s strangely not bothered by it, either. He just keeps _thinking_ about it and he figures where there’s no harm, there’s no foul, so he continues to think about it.

James keeps looking over, checking up on Newkid and making sure he’s safe, and the words _don’t go_ echoing in his own voice still permeates the static in his head.

He rests a hand on Jason’s shoulder just to make sure he’s still there.


	3. 12.2.1986 -- Late PM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Saturday! Have an update!  
> Lots of slow burn in this exciting new installation of "James and Jase get caught up in their feels". 
> 
> Enjoy.

**12/2/86 – Late PM; A roadside motel just over the Canadian border.**

“They’re putting us up in a _motel_ for the night?”

They don’t know what to think when their tour manager breaks the news. They’re still only halfway to Montreal and their next show is _tomorrow_. Boarding up in some backwater town just because the roads are a little icy seems counterproductive to their schedule, but then again, the last time they decided to pull an overnighter on an icy road…they decide they'd really rather not think about it. Lars doesn’t even put up a fight when he hears Bobby string the words “Tour Bus” and “Black ice” together in the same sentence—instead, his expression is pensive as he just continues to recline in his seat, one leg crossed over the other, foot restlessly _tap tap tapping_ out a rhythm as a way of coping with his body’s current lack of stimulants and the subsequent comedown he’s struggling through.

Kirk shrugs, indifferent as ever—he goes with the flow whenever the situation calls for it, but it’d probably be nice to get away from Lars and James’s constant bitching, now that they all come to think of it. Lars, however, is very vehemently opposed to any of the members of Metallica sharing a hotel room and instead vouches that they should dip into their personal finances to foot individual rooms.

That idea, thankfully, goes down like a led balloon when he tosses it to Bobby because nice hotels are fuckin’ expensive and they don’t shit gold. James only half-jokingly suggests that he’ll split his room with Lars if it means he’ll stop being a flagrant jackass, but the drummer only rolls his eyes and gnaws on the chewing gum that he’s ground all of the flavour out of.

Thus, such is the story of how Newkid finds himself sharing a room with James for the night.

The first thing Lars does is pop off to town to go do god knows what (but they all have a good idea of what he's after), Kirk takes off to get some proper food, maybe see a movie if time permits, and Jason—Jason is just glad to finally have a _real_ shower, especially after spending the entire day covered in the dried remains of his own vomit—and smelling like it, too. So, the first thing he does when he and James check into their room and unpack their shit is make a beeline straight for the bathroom.

Now, there’s two important rules that can be said about being in a band: “What’s yours is mine” and “There is no such thing as privacy”, and yeah, the guys in Flotsam and Jetsam were kinda nosy and rowdy and they all lived in the same house, but Jason really didn’t get to jump straight into hardcore touring with them and seemed to have skipped over the whole _band-in-the-throes-of-growing-pains_ phase when he landed the gig with Metallica. Which is why, when James just barges into the bathroom like he owns the damn place while Jason is in the middle of his shower, Jason is very visibly upset.

“Chill, man, you got nothin’ I’ve never seen before. I’m just here to deliver a beer,” the singer states and, sure enough, he has a fresh beer in both hands. Jason is huddling behind the clear shower curtain, shoulder turned, leg hiked up to ensure his more important bits are covered, but he gladly accepts the offering as James passes it through to him. He figures there’s worse people who could have barged through the door, like their tour manager—heaven forbid _Lars_ —and if James is going to be busting down the door while Jason is buck naked, hey, at least he brought beer. They clink bottles before chugging the contents and Jason can’t help but think that this is the most bizarre thing he’s ever done with a bandmate. Ever.

“….thanks?”  
James shrugs. “Think of it as a ‘thank you’ for last night. I kinda owe you one.”  
“Owe me for what?”

There’s something in James’s expression that weakens just a bit and he toes at the floor nervously.

“I was going through a rough time and you were there. You listened. That’s all. Just thought I’d say thanks over a beer.”

The frown on Jason’s face melts into something softer and he can’t help but feel a little sorry for James, but still—he wishes that this moment didn’t have to be shared while he was in the middle of a damn shower. Their gazes meet and for just a split second there’s something electric about holding eye contact that each of them can feel, but are quick to break because it’s causing a tactile response in both of them. Jason’s skin pricks, James feels his face flush, and both of them have to avert their eyes because what in the _hell_ just happened?  
  
Jason figures it’s just the beer. James figures it’s just the loneliness of touring.

Still, neither of them can deny that the tension in the air is palpable and it’s definitely not just from the hot shower, and James quickly excuses himself with nothing more than a noncommittal _later, dude,_ leaving the bassist to his own devices. James isn’t quite ready to confront the thoughts that just crossed his mind— _yet._

The singer is totally absorbed in plucking away at his guitar and already a whole six pack in by the time Jason comes out of the bathroom, sopping wet and wrapped in nothing but a thin towel. He dumps himself down onto the couch next to James, paws for the pack of what may or may not be cigarettes on the end table next to him, and proceeds to light up as he lets himself sink back into the cushions. James wrinkles his nose at the smell of what definitely _isn’t_ cigarettes and he elbows Jason in the side playfully, setting his guitar down to lean against the armrest. Jason passes the joint to James, who trades off a freshly cracked beer for it, and the two boys share a moment of undoubtedly beautiful silence until it’s eventually broken by James threatening to hack up a lung.

“Lightweight,” Jason teases as the joint makes its way back to him.  
“Shut your mouth, I’ll drink you under the table any day, Newkid,” James fires back in-between coughs. “So unless you wanna go for round two of me holding your hair back as you puke, I’d quit while you’re still ahead.”  
  
Jason makes a face before hitting the joint one last time and snubbing it out in the ashtray next to him, the events of that morning still fresh in his mind. He hadn’t been that wasted since their shows in Japan (where, unfortunately, he had been trashed to the point that Kirk was able to convince him a glob of wasabi was mint ice cream while at dinner one night). Admittedly, needing their singer to hold his hair back for him and help him off his ass after only two weeks of touring with his brand new band wasn’t quite the look he was going for. He’s known these guys for just a little shy of month and has been on the road with them for even less; the image of “helpless new guy who can’t hold down his liquor to save his life” is the absolute last thing he wants to project to these already seasoned veterans. And yet…James didn’t have to do that. At all.

Hell, even the guys in Flotsam—whom Jason has known for _much_ longer than Metallica—wouldn’t have ever gone as far as holding his hair out of his face as he looked for God in the bottom of the toilet, and the more he thinks about it, the more he realises how thoughtful it was of James to do that. Maybe it’s his inner sap taking the wheel or maybe it’s the weed, but at that moment when he looks over at James, he swallows down his nerves and thanks him.

The vocalist raises an inquisitive eyebrow, unsure of just what brought that on, but his ego eats it up anyways and he salutes Jason with a tip of his beer.

“It’s nothin’, really. Like I said, I owed you one for the night before…and, well, it’s kinda my fault you got so trashed in the first place. Giving you a comfortable space to puke in peace was the least I could do.”  
“You really didn’t have to.”

James shrugs it off, taking a pull from his beer before letting himself lean back into the cushions.

“You didn’t have to babysit my sad sorry ass the night before, but you did anyways.”  
It’s Jason’s turn to shrug now. “I’d want someone to do the same for me if I was in your situation, that’s all.”

Jason’s not sure if it’s just the coldness of the motel room or the mental recollection of a sobbing James clutching a bottle of Vodka that makes him shiver, but his bandmate is quick to notice. Without asking, James edges up to the bassist and throws an arm around his shoulder, pulling him in closer.

“You should put some clothes on, dumbass,” the blond snorts and Jason can’t help but be a little apprehensive of the sudden contact. James almost _never_ showed any form of physical closeness—ever. Hell, even _Lars_ was much more eager to make contact with his bandmates—Jason hasn’t even known him for two whole months and yet the drummer is more than comfortable flopping all over him whenever he damn well feels like it, which certainly… _does_ things to him. On top of that, there was more than one occasion where Lars had gotten dangerously close to toeing the line of what was appropriate between two guys in the same band but then again, he’s European after all, and they’re a lot more open about this kind of stuff.

Or, at least, that’s how Jason’s taken to rationalising his experiences with the tiny drummer.

Maybe it’s the weed—Jason is already feeling pleasantly numb and lightheaded—so god knows how James is handling the high with his non-smoker’s tolerance and all.

With James, though, Jason’s unsure of whether or not this is going to turn into another painful hazing ritual—because that, too, has happened more than once—but then Jason recalls how the two of them had just been in this exact same position: shoulder-to-shoulder with James resting his chin on the top of Jason’s head, no more than twenty-four hours ago, and it crosses the bassist’s mind that maybe James isn’t out to punk his sorry ass for once. He shivers again and he’s sure it’s the cold now and not the sudden closeness between himself and his singer—because that’s making him feel very, _very_ hot—and then before he realises it James is pulling him onto his lap and _wait James is pulling him onto his lap._

There’s a brief moment of panic as Jason’s fight-or-flight response is activated because _what the fuck are they doing_ , but James grips the bassist’s hips with his enormous hands and pins him in place like a tack.

“James?“  
“Dude, you’re shivering like you’re gonna freeze to fuckin’ death. We’ve got a show tomorrow night and there’s no way in fuck I’m gonna let another bassist—”

James has to stop himself before he finishes the thought. It’s painted clearly across his face that painful memories are bubbling up to the surface right now, whether he wants to admit it or not. Truth is, James is still coming to grips with Cliff, just as the rest of the band is, and it’s easy for Jason to see. Cliff’s absence went through Metallica like thread through a needle—everything they do is coloured with his stitch—and it hurts. So Jason does what James needs him to do most, and he grabs the blanket hanging over the back of the couch and drapes it across his shoulders before leaning in close to James and wrapping his skinny arms around him.

“Easy there, big guy,” Jason teases and he feels James melt into him. Something’s different from last night, however—this is just the second instance they’ve ended up in each other’s arms, yet it feels like Jason is falling into James for the millionth time. They’re familiar strangers, with familiar worries and familiar fears, and they just want a soft and quiet place to hang up their hats and forget about the world for a moment.

James is still unsure of what force is driving him to tread into these uncharted feelings, but unlike the night before, they’re not eating him alive. Instead, he welcomes these thoughts and emotions like an old friend in the same way he’s welcomed Jason into his arms and really, he doesn’t know where this is going, but he’s in it for the long haul.

Touring is lonely, even amidst a group of four guys. When you’re grinding out shows in rapid fire succession, one night after the other, with not even a day off to stop and keep your head from spinning, it’s hard to find comfort in something—let alone another person. Sure, James has had his fair share of lonely nights sharing the same hotel room as Lars and yeah, they’ve definitely gotten blackout drunk enough to the point where they were both horny and desperate enough to indulge in the other’s company just a little too much, but nothing James has ever engaged in has prepared him for what he’s feeling at the moment.

Jason is close— _so close—_ close enough that James can feel the gentle rising and falling of his shoulders as he breathes, feel the smaller man’s heartbeat against their chests pressed flush, and even though James has been in this scenario with plenty of girls, he can count on two hands the amount of times he’s been this close to another guy. The bassist sighs into James’s ear as he stirs and it sends a pleasant jolt throughout his body. Diamond Head’s _It’s Electric_ is playing on loop in his head and _goddamn this weed is strong._

It’s late and the motel room only has a single light on the bedside table, but it’s just enough illumination for James to see each soft curve of Jason’s body when he detaches himself from the singer and leans back, his face catching the lamplight in just the right way to make cold sweat bead on James’s forehead and his mouth go bone dry.

Jason notices the way James is clenching his jaw, eyeing him like a hawk, and enough is enough. Maybe it’s the weed and the booze that’s suddenly giving Jason the confidence to act on his impulses, but he finally decides that he can’t handle it any longer and he takes James’s face in his hands, tilts his head up, and presses his lips against the singer’s. It’s awkward at first—their teeth click, they can’t really synchronise with each other’s pace, and there’s a lot of clumsy fumbling and groping over each other’s bodies—but it’s good enough that both men go back for more after they break for air.

James is needy and it’s exactly what Jason wants, so the grunt of approval that the bassist earns from his singer when he presses his mouth back against his is all he needs to keep going. Jason feels fingers carding through his hair—it’s still damp from the shower—and when the singer accidentally snags on a tangle and pulls, Jason can’t help but let a soft moan slip out against James’s lips. He shifts his weight to be less on his knees and more on James’s lap and he grips the blond’s shoulders as he fervently presses on for more. As the time spent exploring each other’s bodies increases, so does the intensity, and it’s only a matter of time before James slips his rough and calloused hands down Jason’s back, tracing each delicate bump of his spine as he makes his way down under the bath towel to finally rest on his ass. This makes Jason buck his hips reflexively and he bites down on the singer’s bottom lip hard—hopefully it won't bruise—but he's just so frustrated with all of the teasing. James fights back a moan as nails dig into his shoulders, not caring how many little red crescent are cut into the skin, and when Jason starts grinding his hips down onto him the singer can’t help but grate out a low and drawn out “ _fuck”_.

Everything is accelerating at breakneck speed; the room is spinning around them, the temperature is suffocating, but they keep pressing on for more, too drunk and high and caught up in the moment to care about the repercussions. Patience is something neither man is particularly known for and Jason is quick to peel the shirt off of his bandmate, but when he slides his hands down James’s bare chest to fumble at the button on his jeans, the two are interrupted by three sharp knocks on the room door.

Jason nearly trips over his own ass as he launches himself off of James and throws on the closest pair of pants he can find, hiking them up around his waist before he takes a seat across the room. James is totally unphased—has he done this before?—and, still shirtless, he saunters over to the door and swings it open with about as much enthusiasm as someone who just got told they need to take a trip to the DMV.

It’s Bobby—the tour manager—and he doesn’t even spare Jason a glance past James’s shoulder, instead fixing his eyes on the towering blond and giving him the third degree about management complaining over the smell of weed. Jason hears James blaming it on a skunk—they’re in a backwater town in the middle of the Canadian wilderness, after all—and he slams the door in Bobby’s face after spitting out a friendly _Then let the fuckers sue me_. Jason takes it upon himself to crack a window because he just _knows_ that any extra cleaning fee is going to be stuck to him, before making his way over to one of the twin beds and dumping himself on it. He looks at the clock—it’s four in the morning—and sighs when he realises that they’ve got to be checked out and on the road by ten. Now that the mood between he and James has been successfully soured, he figures he should really try and sleep before his libido gets the best of him.

The feeling must be mutual because James makes no suggestion to continue what they started, instead choosing to rifle through his luggage for who knows what. The sounds of shit being pushed around this way and that are followed by the familiar hiss of a beer being cracked and Jason can’t help but wonder how James manages to drink so damn much. The last thing the bassist remembers before drifting off to sleep is a hand placing itself on his forehead and brushing strands of hair from his face as a quiet voice bids him goodnight.

“See you in the morning, Newkid.”


	4. 12.3.1986

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If y'all hated Bobby in the last chapter, y'all are _really_ gonna hate Lars in this one.  
> (Also, Bobby did nothing wrong. Bobby is just doing his job as tour manager. Save him from these idiots)
> 
> Because there's been multiple asks about the pairings in this fic, all I have to say is: It's a clusterfuck. While this work is predominately Newfield and focuses on such, there's gonna be be some delicious side ships meant to completely throw Jason through the grinder because Metallica is why he can't have nice things (Also why limit him to only boning one member of the band? This fandom is seriously starved of ALL Jason ships and I'm here to fix that).
> 
> One last note: Thank you to EVERYONE who has left kudos and comments. I really, truly appreciate each and every one! I'm so glad that y'all are enjoying this story as much as I've been writing it (and it gives me the motivation to keep going!). So, again, THANK YOU (heart emoji)

**12/3/1986 - Early AM, Motel Room**

Despite waking up feeling particularly alert and functional for having only four hours of sleep, Jason Newsted wants nothing more than to put a bullet through the head of whoever the _fuck_ is pounding on his door at eight in the morning. As he pulls himself up to a sitting position, he scans the room and realises they’re still at the motel, still on tour, still miles away from home, and that feeling is enough to make his stomach sink a little. Across from him in the other bed he can see the form of James under a nest of blankets, curled up like a cat. The singer fires off a colourful strand of expletives before burying his head under the pillow; He’s hungover—per usual—and not having any of this shit. _At all_.

Jason swings his feet over the mattress and pushes himself up, still groggy and rubbing sleep from his eyes as he makes his way over to the door and unlocks it. Whoever is pounding is quick to let themselves through and in waltzes Lars, fully dressed, wild-eyed, and with Kirk following closely at his heels.

“Come on dude, get your shit together and let’s go already,” the drummer chides and Jason can’t help but notice that he’s constantly rubbing at his nose like it’s bothering him.  
 _Ah. Typical.  
_ “They stop serving breakfast at nine, you two slow-shits got an hour.”  
“I see you’ve already had your breakfast, judging by the way you still got some on your face.”  
“Fuckin’ shut it, Newkid.”

Jason just silently smirks and stretches as Lars makes his way over to James’s bed and rips the blankets back.

”Up! Get the fuck up! Fuck, _vågn op!_ God, get your fuckin’ drunk ass outta bed, ya fuckin’ lush!”

James doesn’t take kindly to this at all and instead tries swatting at Lars like a fly, unleashing yet another string of swears at the drummer. Lars only cackles as he catches James by the hand and crawls onto the bed next to him so he can slap at his cheek. Kirk is there now, too, and Jason can’t help but laugh at James’s expense as his bandmates each take their turns harassing the singer.

“Partied too hard last night, huh Het?”  
Lars is met with an unintelligible mess of garbles and growls.  
“What’s wrong, cat got your tongue?”  
More unintelligible growls.

Something piques the drummer’s attention and he grips James by the jaw, wrenching his head to the side and examining his face like he’s a prize-winning bull to be poked and prodded at. Jason, deciding now would be a great time to crack open a beer before an entire shitstorm unfolds in his hotel room, continues to watch on in silence as the lanky blond halfheartedly swats at his bandmate in protest. What catches Lars’s eye next, however, makes Jason’s stomach sink just a little more.

“What’s that on your lip, Het?” the drummer needles, turning James’s face with his hand to get a better look at the angry purple bruise on his bottom lip. “Is that a bite mark?”

Lars lifts his eyes, locks them with Jason’s, and the air in the room instantly curdles.

“Where did that come from, I wonder?”

The glare he shoots the bassist is dilated and wide and venomous enough to clot blood, and the only thing Jason can do is keep a straight face and give a nonchalant shrug. If Lars wants to be aggressive, then Jason isn’t going to fight—he knows that the drummer chopped his breakfast on a mirror so he’s going to be picking on everyone all day until someone breaks and snaps, and Jason just doesn’t have it in him to put up with that kind of shit. Not with a show tonight, that is. He’ll just let Lars take this win for now—as if keeping the peace with these guys isn’t already difficult enough.

“We may have duked it out a bit last night. We had too much to drink and got rowdy, that’s all. If I need to pay for cosmetic damage to Hetfield’s face as well, then just tack it onto my room bill like you’ve been doing with everything else.”

Lars looks like he’s been bitten. He wrinkles his nose and draws his mouth into a tight line—that wasn’t the answer he was looking for and Jason knows it—but before he can do anything else, Kirk steps in and puts a reassuring hand on the drummer’s shoulder.

“C’mon man, you’re acting weird. We’ve got forty-five minutes until they stop serving food. If James misses breakfast then he misses breakfast; I’m fuckin’ starving, let’s go.”

With a sharp snort and a huff, Lars releases the grip on James’s jaw and slides off the bed. He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket and storms over to the door.  
 **“** _Det er vrøvl_ ,” he hisses to himself as he heads out, leaving his bandmates in silence.

Before Kirk follows him out, his eyes catch Jason’s and they share a look. The guitarist manages an apologetic smile before excusing himself and silently slipping out of the room. Jason takes a moment to just breathe—the _fuck_ was that all about? He lets himself sink back into his bed and takes a deep pull from his beer as he attempts to calm himself down.

_Today is gonna be a hell of a day._

* * *

He nearly misses breakfast—the only thing left at the buffet is a sad combination of day old biscuits and some scrapings of scrambled eggs—but when he makes it to the dining room he finds Lars, Kirk, and Bobby seated at a table off near a window, more or less finished with their food.

“Breakfast was a fuckin’ joke,” Lars scoffs as he pushes around what Jason hopes is the remains of an omelette with his fork. “Not a piece of fresh fruit to be seen.”.

“Would it kill them to have some apples? Oranges? Like, I know we’re in landlocked Canada, but c’mon…” Kirk is mumbling more to his food than anyone else. Jason sees what looks like a deconstructed breakfast sandwich on his plate; bits of ham have been picked out and discarded on the edge. It must suck being a vegetarian on the road.

“Will you two just shut it already? Nobody is forcing you to eat the _complimentary_ breakfast. There’s a Tim Horton’s down the road if you’re so inclined,” Bobby cuts, obviously done with the both of them.  
  
Kirk and Lars say nothing; Jason shifts uneasily in his chair. Their tour manager rises from his seat and excuses himself. “Get your asses in gear, we leave in twenty. I’m gonna go pay our bill, you three are in charge of making sure we don’t leave Het blacked out in his room. Got a show tonight and we can’t afford to leave our singer dead in some podunk motel in the middle of nowhere.”

Once Lars is confident Bobby is out of earshot, he turns to Jason—who’s just trying to bite into his biscuit without breaking his teeth—and shoots him a look that Jason really isn’t sure consists of more snarl or sneer.

“You gonna go wake your boyfriend up?”

Jason bristles at the question. He sees Kirk sink into his chair across from him with a look on his face that screams _not this shit again,_ because he’s trying his best to diffuse these situations as they appear and it’s just not working.

“Unless you’d like to do the honours, then yes, I’m going to go wake James up,” Jason’s tone is dry and flat as he’s next in sequence to excuse himself from the table. He’s trying so hard to stay civil because Lars is really going out of his way to push his buttons, but poorer judgement gets the best of Jason and he allows himself the last laugh.  
  
“I’ll try not to suck his dick for you, though.”

Lars bolts up from his chair so fast he nearly upturns the table and then the two men are glaring knives at each other. The entire room seems to freeze over as they stare each other down and refuse to budge, and Jason can’t help but notice the slightest twitch under the drummer’s left eye. He crumples his face as he chews the inside of his cheek and Jason knows that look, knows that he’s calculating, doing the mental math to see if he can discern who’ll swing first, and Jason can hear his own knuckles cracking one-by-one as he squares his shoulders and straightens his posture.

“Wanna say that again, _Newshit_?”

Before Jason can pop off something nasty Kirk is mediating, placing himself between them and working at ushering Lars out of the dining room.

“C’mon Lars, time and place! Stop pickin’ on Jase and get your ass to the tour bus, you heard Bobby. Out, _Dutch Boy_ , out!!!” Kirk has Lars by the shoulders now and is turning him away from the table, away from Jason, and Lars lets him. He doesn’t leave without throwing the bassist one last venom infused scowl from over his shoulder, however.

Once again, Jason is left alone and to his own devices. He sighs and lets his shoulders drop as he makes his way out of the dining room, still feeling like he’s on pins and needles. He’s thankful for Kirk’s intervention but still itching for a fistfight, because he’s really getting tired of a coked-out Lars constantly busting his chops. He checks his pocket for the room keys and is thankful to find he hasn’t forgotten them.

_Guess it’s time to go wake up James._

* * *

**12/3/86 - Mid Day, Montreal -- Verdun Auditorium**

The bus ride to Montreal passes in a blur.

Jason can’t even recall how many hours they spent on the road because the first thing he does is load in and clock out—and by “clocking out” that means getting so high he can’t tell left from right. He shares more than a couple joints with Kirk and then it’s all going through the motions from there—sleep, wake up, take a shot of Jager, go back to sleep—and at some point the bus stops and they load out their gear, because suddenly they’re at the venue.

He’s still not used to playing places of this size because he’s only got a whopping ten shows under his belt (and only a score more if you count the Arizona clubs he played with Flotsam), so when arena security ushers him and the other boys off the bus Jason just lets them, because he’s still a little too high to wrap his head around the fact that they’re about to headline a sold-out show to five and a half thousand people.

It doesn’t take long for them to unpack and Lars and Kirk are quick to attempt a French Exit, with Bobby screaming _you better not be fuckin’ late for soundcheck!_ out the door after them because he knows exactly what they’re up to. Exhaustion ringing their tour manager’s eyes with dark circles, he’s next to depart as he has a concert promoter to hunt down, thus leaving James and Jason to entertain themselves in the dressing room.

Jason doesn’t even have to ask to get a beer in his hands; James wordlessly excuses himself to the cooler, grabs a couple Coors, and tosses one to the bassist. They pop the tabs and clink them in cheers before tipping them back and chugging. If it was just gonna be the two of them alone, then they may as well get their drink on now before boredom takes them and it’s not like they have anywhere else to be. They find chairs across the room from each other and decide to get comfy with their instruments, plucking away on guitar and bass respectively.

“So, how much monopoly money do ya wanna bet that Lars comes back looking like he stuck his nose in a box of powdered donuts and acting like a raging cunt?” James finally breaks the silence and Jason manages a laugh, but it’s less because he finds the notion funny and more out of attrition because lately Jason has been Lars’s favourite person to land the butt end of his nasty attitude on—and it’s really starting to grind him down.

“Bonus points if he takes it out on me,” Jason adds dryly and it makes James raise an eyebrow at him from behind his Coors, mid-sip.

“That’s just…Lars being _Lars_. You’ll get used to him.”  
“Sure, which is why I’m the only one he actively picks on.”  
“You’re overthinking it, he’s just a little shit.”  
“Like you and Kirk have been any better. Should I remind you of the wasabi incident? Or how about kicking in my hotel door at four in the morning and throwing all my shit out the window? Ordering several hundred dollars worth of room service and stickin’ it to my bill? Telling all of our crew and fans I’m _gay?_ ”

James sinks a little into his chair and his smile goes lukewarm, because maybe there is a Newkid breakpoint and maybe they’re approaching it a little too fast.

“We’ll make it up to you,” he counters because admission still isn’t his strong point and apparently “ _sorry_ ” isn’t part of Hetfield’s vocab. He holsters his guitar on its stand and rises from his seat, walks over to Jason, plops himself in the chair closest to the bassist and throws an arm over his shoulders. “Just wait until you see all those zeroes tacked on to your next cheque.”

Jason is silent because James really does have a point—the money he’s been making has been _insane._ Hand him a beer and a sandwich and he’d be happy to play bass any day of the week, because this is where his heart lies and he was practically doing it for free with Flotsam...but when the dividend gets factored in, Jason really can’t complain, because what’s a little hazing when he can literally wipe away his tears with hundred dollar bills?

Instead of trying to argue it—which wasn’t his goal in the first place, anyways—he just leans into the arm slung across his back and lets out a deep breath before taking a long pull on his Coors. Maybe he really is just overthinking all of the antics.

“Alright, alright, you got me there. Just keep those paychecks coming and I won’t complain,” Jason diminishes as he racks his bass, then feels a hand squeeze his shoulder tightly and it warms him in a way that normally wouldn’t, simply because it’s James.

“Attaboy,” the guitarist’s tone is airier, lighter now, and Jason feels like he’s doing tailspins because they’re _close_ again and very clear memories of the night before are starting to bubble up through the booze-and-weed-induced mental fog. As if that weren’t enough, the familiar feeling of himself straining against his jeans is a painful reminder that they really never got to finish what they started last night, and it’s killing him.

“You’re a good kid, Jase,” James’s words come almost as an afterthought.  
“ _Kid?_ Fuck you, I’m older than you!”  
“Yeah but you’re short, so it doesn’t count.”  
“At least I’m taller than Lars!”

Jason gives James a playful shove but the guitarist catches his wrist mid-air; He tries to follow it up by swinging his other hand, which James catches just as easily. Even though Jason is struggling he’s laughing, laughing so hard, and there’s a broad smile across his face as his tries to thow his weight against his bandmate. All it earns him is complete immobilisation, James’s hands locked around his wrists as the guitarist yanks him out of his chair. He falls to his knees, conveniently landing right in between James’s legs and the blond just joins him in laughter. The two men struggle playfully against the other, the vocalist obviously having the upper hand in the situation and Jason not caring, until their eyes meet and that electric feeling from the night before picks up right where it left off.

“Well, _Mister Newsted_ , you seem to have landed yourself in quite the predicament,” James teases and whether he means to or not, it makes Jason’s breath snag in his throat because the realisation that he’s on his knees in front of James just sank in. He bites his lower lip and watches as James goes a little slack-jawed because he _has_ to be feeling it, too, and before Jason has a chance to make any suggestions, James trades the grip on one of his wrist’s for a grip in his hair. Jason is quick to recall how James had snagged a few of his curls as they tore into each other the night before and he shudders because if he just plays his cards just right…

James must have picked up a glint of something in Jason’s eyes because he tightens his grip on his hair and drags him in a little closer; he runs a tongue over his bottom lip while he watches Jason’s adam’s apple bob slowly as he swallows down his nerves.

“I think we should finish what we started.”

Jason doesn’t waste any time undoing the button and fly on James’s jeans, especially since the singer is more than happy to spur him on with words of encouragement. It’s not difficult finding James’s cock because the singer has been painfully hard for a while now, and when Jason pulls down the fabric of his briefs it all but springs out in his face. Jason pauses for one, two, three seconds and James watches his bandmate’s jaw drop a little as he comprehends just how he’s going to get his mouth over all of James’s length.

“Never tackled anything this size, eh, Newkid?” James teases, because James knows that expression—as well as the hunger that lingers in his bandmate’s eyes.

“Like it’s gonna stop me,” comes Jason’s smug reply. He’s been waiting for this moment for too long and he’s not about to let nerves get the best of him.  
The bassist starts by running a tongue up James’s shaft, from the base all the way up to the swollen head that’s already leaking a healthy amount of precum. A needy groan rumbles low in James’s throat and he tightens his grip on Jason’s hair as the bassist swirls a tongue over it, sampling the salt and musk and taste of James before gliding back down to the base.

“ _Fuck_ , Newkid, stop blue-ballin’ me, I got enough of that last night…” James grinds out, eyes pinched shut, head tipped back as he gives Jason’s hair a gentle tug. The bassist just smiles against him, ignoring his suggestion and taking his sweet time in pushing James to the edge.  
“So it’s been on your mind too, huh?” He purrs and feels James’s legs quiver under him.  
“I ain’t sayin’ shit.”  
“Of course _you_ won’t, but _I_ don’t have any shame in admitting I’ve had nothing on my mind except for getting this big ol’ cock in me since last night.”

Jason hears James’s breath hitch and he inwardly laughs; the blond probably wasn’t expecting this kind of confidence from him and he drinks up the singer’s astonishment like wine. He lets his tongue travel back up his bandmate’s shaft and he seals his mouth around the tip, eliciting a throaty growl from James, who responds by twisting his fingers in his hair, frustrated with the teasing. When Jason finally starts to work his mouth down James’s length the singer can’t help but choke down a gasp. He fires off so many _oh my fucking God’s_ as the bassist sinks his head down that you’d think he was praying, but when Jason stops halfway, James let’s out a little whine and attempts to press down on the back of Jason’s head again. Instead of complying, the bassist slips his mouth back up and off his cock with a wet _pop_ , a strand of saliva webbing between James and his bottom lip, and he takes a moment to fiddle with the button on his own jeans.

James cracks open an eye when he hears the sound of a fly unzipping and the moment he catches a glimpse of Jason starting to work his hand between his own legs, pumping his cock that’s poking out through the slit in his boxer-briefs, James just about comes unglued.

“ _Jesus Christ_ , Newkid…”  
“What? I can’t let you get all the attention.”

Once Jason has a steady rhythm going, he seals his mouth back around James’s shaft and starts sucking, head bobbing in sync with his hand. The wet heat around James is enough to wrench a cavernous growl from him and he only makes more noise as his bandmate throws a hand into the mix, gripping at the singer’s thigh and digging his fingers into the soft skin. James is more than glad to assist Jason with keeping time and pushes down on the back of the bassist’s head whenever he starts going off-rhythm. The pair are quick to synchronise with each other’s motions and suddenly they’re matching each other stroke for stroke, like a finely tuned machine. Soon, the only audible noises in the dressing room are that of wet sucks and pops and James’s breathing, quivering and laboured.

Jason is more skilled than James anticipates; he knows exactly when to add in just a bit more suction or when the best moment to run a tongue along the underside of his cock is, and it’s lip-bitingly, knuckle-crackingly _good._ James feels a tension building in his belly, like a loaded gun about to fire and _fuck_ this is all happening too quick. Jason is picking up the pace, too—he’s gotta be getting close—and James has been anticipating this so patiently now that he doesn’t want it to be over just yet.

He waits for Jason to hit the upstroke before he fists those brown curls with both hands and pulls his bandmate’s mouth off of his cock, leaving Jason slack-jawed and perplexed with a mixture of saliva and precum dribbling down his chin. Jason lifts his eyes and when their gazes meet, James has to bite down on his cheek to keep from groaning because _goddamn_ Newkid looks good with his cock pressed up against his lips like that.

And that’s when Lars walks in.

The silence that follows is louder than a bomb going off.  
“Well, well, well…” the drummer eventually starts, slowly clicking his tongue as he bores holes in them with his glare, “…What have we here?”

His tone is dry and flat, as if he didn’t just walk in on his bassist choking down his singer’s dick, and he just leans against the frame of the door with his arms crossed, drumsticks in hand, gnawing on the toothpick poking out from between lips that have been pulled into a tight scowl.

“Soundcheck is in five minutes, just so you two lovebirds know, and if either of you are fucking late then this will be the last night _any_ of us perform as a band.”

And with that, he smiles, turns on his heel, and trots down the hall, leaving Jason and James frozen in place, blood like ice in their veins, faces whiter than sheets.

They’re early for soundcheck.


	5. 12.4.1986

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uploaded at 23:52! Woohoo! I really like cutting my self-imposed deadlines close, haha.
> 
> To compensate for the last two chapters being extra spicy, this one has been filled with lots of wonderful Newkid hazing—and a hefty serving of drama, because who doesn't love some good old-fashioned tension between bandmates?
> 
> Again, an enormous thank you to all of the wonderful comments on the previous chapters. They really mean a lot to me.

**12/4/86 – On the road to Chicoutimi – Tour Bus**

“ _Cereal_ for breakfast? Really? _Cereal_?”

Jason can’t stop from withering under Lars’s glare and instinctively slides the bowl of dry cornflakes just a little bit closer to his chest. The Dane scoffs as he paws for something on the floor, and Jason can’t help but recoil even more when the spoon in his bowl rattles as Lars slams the handle of Vodka down in front of it. His eyes dart across the table from Kirk to James then back to Kirk and he’s hoping, _praying,_ that at least one of them will speak up for him.

They don’t.  
  
“Unacceptable. Cereal is for pussies,” Lars pops the cap on the Smirnoff, “You like milk?”

Jason knows better than to reply because the question is purely rhetorical.  
“Well, how about _vodka_?”  
  
Lars gives him a vicious smile and wets his bottom lip with a tongue as he tips the bottle and empties it into the bowl.

“Now _that’s_ a breakfast. Eat up, Newkid.”

James and Jason’s eyes finally meet and the bassist signals him a silent plea, practically begging for James to do something— _anything_ —to which the blond just shrugs him off before taking a pull on his beer and folding his arms across his chest. It’s almost as if he’s waiting for Jason to impress him.

“It’s not so bad, Newkid. Builds character! You wanna be on our level _? Eat the vodka_.”

Jason had no idea that words were capable of that kind of crushing power.  
  
After all of the intimate moments he’s had with James up to now—the crying in the middle of the night, James holding his hair as he pukes, all of the touching and grasping and groping and _jesus fucking christ_ he’s had James’s dick in his mouth, for crying out loud—he could’ve sworn the guitarist would go up to bat for him, even just this once. Despite it all it seems that, like many things so far, Jason is completely and totally wrong.

He makes the sudden realisation, however, that he’s also the only one at the table eating actual _food_ and that both James and Kirk are already several beers in, and God only knows what Lars has put into his system. _Fuck,_ man, it’s not even noon. They just woke up like fifteen minutes ago and all of them are already hitting the bottle, the joint, chopping on the mirror.

Metallica probably had three-quarters of a functioning liver split between them when Jason first strolled into their audition room, and even less now; They didn’t earn the name _Alcohollica_ for sipping tea, after all. But, you know what they say: If you can’t beat ‘em, _join ‘em_ , and as Jason shovels the first spoonful of Frosted-Vodka-Crunch into his mouth he’s met with approving words from his bandmates. He frowns as he chews, mostly because of the bite of the booze and a healthy dose of disdain for Lars, but he’s too stubborn to stop at this point because he’s got the guts to do it and yeah, he wants to prove he can keep up with the other three.

He finishes the bowl.

This just has to be an unnecessarily cruel form of hazing from Lars for getting caught with James’s dick in his mouth the night before, Jason is sure of it. There’s no other reason why the drummer would subject him to this kind of treatment other than out of sheer spite. Whereas the bassist never really thought of himself as smart, he knows he’s damn well intuitive—and intuition has picked up on every cue that Lars and James have been boning for quite some time like it’s being broadcast on fuckin’ radio waves, so it all makes sense, really. At least to him.

It also makes sense that James would default to Team Ulrich whenever it’s time for Newkid’s daily dose of hazing and as these realisations fall in line like chessmen, Jason can’t help but walk away from his bandmates with a bitter taste in his mouth. His vision is already starting to go sideways as he still isn’t used to knocking back vodka first thing in the morning and he wobbles as he makes his way from the table to his bunk. He can’t help but feel just a bit more than stung at the thought that he’ll never truly be accepted by the rest of the band; No matter how many times they say they’re cool with him, they’ll always be pissed off when they look to his spot on stage and see him standing there instead of their boy, and saying it hurts is an understatement.

Stung enough and sick of everyone’s attitude, Jason yanks the privacy screen in place and curls up next to the window. Nobody notices that he’s taken the Smirnoff with him, either.

* * *

Four hours of listening to Lars and Kirk bitch over the guitarist’s comic books and how they’re taking up “ _so much goddamn space on this tiny-ass little fuckin’ bus”_ and Jason is willingly hitting the bottle by the time the vehicle pulls up to the venue and they all stumble onto solid, unmoving ground. From across the parking lot, Jason can see droves of fans queued up in front of the box office, waiting for it to open. The sour feeling in the bassist’s gut from the morning’s events immediately dissolves when they’re ushered to a side entrance adjacent to the line and the four young musicians are greeted by hundreds of rabid fans screaming from across the stanchions to get their attention. It’s one thing having your adoring followers holler at you from afar, but it’s a completely different level when you catch a glimpse of them and every single person is wearing a shirt with your logo on it. Starstruck and dazzled, venue security has to nudge Jason in the ass to get him to stop gawking and move along.

Despite the fact that they’re quickly setting into the “Same Shit, Different Day” grind, Jason finds it anything but. Their routine may be formulaic—wake up hungover, drive to the next city, play a kickass show, party all night, sleep, repeat—but there was always something unexpected and exciting to keep him anticipating the next show (and to compensate for his bandmates’ less-than-stellar attitudes). He was playing in _Metallica_ , after all—he had made the cut—and if that wasn’t enough reason for him, then, well...something was wrong.

They're corralled into a dressing room that looks oddly similar to the last and the roadies wheel their gear in behind them. James heads straight to the beer—specifically stocked with Carlsbergs, per the band’s request—Kirk gets comfortable perched on the counter with his guitar in his lap, Lars takes a seat on a ratty old couch in the corner, and Jason loans a hand to the scrawny roadie trying to wrangle his road case through the door without crushing himself. Bobby is the last inside and as his eyes dart across the room, he runs a hand through greasy blond curls, swearing under his breath as he looks for their drummer amidst the sea of tech crew dating to and fro.

“Ulrich, get your ass over here. We have a promoter to hunt down and money to collect.”  
“I’m busy,” the drummer lies, not even bothering to spare Bobby the courtesy of making eye contact. “Take Het with you.”  
“You’re sitting on the couch.”  
“Did I fucking stutter? I said I’m _busy_.”  
“Fine, whatever, I don’t have time for you to act like a fuckin’ princess. James, with me.”

James, not even having time to pop the tab on his ale, doesn’t protest and does what he’s told—he’s really not much of a diplomat anyways, but if Lars is going to be petty and difficult then _someone_ has to take his place at Bobby’s side—especially where money is concerned. After their manager heads out with the frontman in tow and the rest of the tech crew in tow, Lars lifts his gaze for just a moment long enough to send Jason a cocky grin from across the room.

Jason knows that look—he’s only seen it a few times, but the times that he _has_ have definitely not been good ones, and it’s far too easy to put one and one together and see that this is just another creative way the drummer is snubbing him yet again for walking in on him going down on James. The younger man’s sharp green eyes manage to convey the words _I don’t trust you alone with him._

A smart man picks his battles and that’s exactly what Jason does—shouldering his bass by the strap, he relegates himself to the spot in the room he deems furthest from Ulrich and gets some practise in. They’ve got a few spare hours before they can even do soundcheck, so he may as well get comfy. Time passes slowly but surely and whether his presence is warranted or not, Lars eventually comes sauntering over and seats himself backwards in a chair across from Jason, arms draped over the back of the seat like a curtain. Jason spares him only the smallest of glances, utters a quick acknowledgement, and goes back to noodling on his bass.

“Hey, Newkid.”  
“What?”  
“I don’t know about you, but I’m fuckin’ bored.”  
“That sucks.”  
  
The drummer wrinkles his nose when he doesn’t receive the gratification he’s seeking and that’s when he gets an idea. Unfortunately, as time has proven again and again, when Lars Ulrich gets an idea, it’s almost always at someone else’s expense.  
  
“Hey, Jase, y’know…one of Cliff’s jobs was to shake every beer can before James drinks ‘em.”

This actually manages to pull Jason’s attention away from his bass and he gives Lars a pointed look, brows pinched together in disbelief.  
“You’re fucking with me, right?”  
“Nah, man, just ask James, he’ll tell you some bullshit about how it, like, super-pressurises the can and all the extra carbonation makes it taste better.”  
“Yeah, sure.”  
“No, dude, really! Right, Kirk?”

Kirk makes a sound of approval from across the room, still engrossed in his own guitar playing, which makes Lars’s statement that much harder to digest. Jason has been burned so many times now that he’s incredibly apprehensive to take anything his bandmates say at face value—as he contemplates the situation at hand, wasabi flashes before his eyes—but once again, Drunk Jason ultimately decides that this will be a problem for Sober Jason to figure out later, and the bass player starts his newly assigned task by making his way over to the cooler, picking up a can of Carlsberg, and giving it a hefty shake. Then he picks up another and does the same. And another, and another, and another, until every can has been given a proper thrashing.

“There. Happy now?”  
“Good job, Newkid!”  
“What ever would I do without Lars’s constant validation,” The bassist rolls his eyes as he seats himself again and picks his bass back up.

Not even five minutes pass and Bobby returns, James close on his heels and spitting fire.

“God, I fuckin’ _hate_ dealing with all that business shit," James punctuates his sentence by slamming the door. "Lars, you’re handling the next management meeting or else you’re gonna be scraping your ass off the bottom of the bus, you little Danish cunt. You _know_ I hate dealing with the fuckin’ suits,” the guitarist fires off, shrugging his leather jacket from his shoulders and Jason can only stare on in horror as he realises James is making a beeline straight for the icebox. It all happens so quickly—he snags a can, pops the tab, and within a split-second a fountain of beer is erupting from the lid, dousing him from top to bottom.

“Oh you’ve gotta be _fucking kidding me…”_

What’s even more horrifying, however, is watching James Hail-Mary the still gushing beer across the room and fish another one out of the ice, only to have the exact same thing happen all over again.  
  
And _again.  
_  
Completely drenched and smelling like a brewery, it finally clicks in the singer’s head that someone fucked with all the beers, and as he turns slowly on a heel so he can find and kill the culprit Jason’s stomach feels like someone dropped a cinderblock in it. Even Bobby has stopped dead in his tracks with this mortified look on his face, anxiously gnawing at his lip and knowing better than to try to step in to mediate.  
They all know what’s coming next.

“Okay. Who’s the fuckin’ funny guy who shook all the goddamn cans?”

The room goes deathly quiet and Jason holds his breath, anticipating the worst.  
This is it. This is how he dies.  
  
“Wasn’t me,” Kirk is the first to jump ship.  
“I didn’t touch shit,” Lars adds, knowing very well he’s part of the equation but deciding to shrug it off like it’s nothing, because Newkid has successfully made the top of his shit list. This is absolutely deliberate.

This leaves James to lock eyes with Jason, who is now feeling terribly, horribly small. He wilts into himself and it feels like he’s been punched in the throat—was Lars really so pissed that he had no problem walking him right into this shit? It leaves the bassist wondering if the dividend really _is_ worth all of the hassle at the end of the day, especially if all the razzing from Lars will continue to degenerate into straight up abuse.

Time seems to stand still as everyone waits for James to go nuclear. The blond stares down Jason with narrowed eyes, his mouth pulled into a tight frown because the bassist’s silence is just another form of admission and James is still in no mood for anyone’s bullshit.  
  
He takes a sharp inhale, squares his shoulders…and walks away.  
He doesn’t excuse himself without nearly slamming the door off its hinges, but for the first time in the band’s history, James actually remains silent and _leaves_.  
  
The entire room collectively lets out the breath they’ve been holding because they know they’ve fucked up—catastrophically so. Bobby looks like he just watched a plane crash. Kirk is frozen in place, eyes wide, little hands fidgeting nervously at the gain knob on his guitar. Lars…Lars is wearing some kind of deflated expression akin to that of a kid who just got his candy taken away. When his and Jason’s eyes finally meet, the glare he sends him is nothing but pure malice before he books it out the door to go hunt Hetfield down, because this was _not_ how things were supposed to pan out—it was supposed to break _Newkid_. Bobby swears under his breath and dips out after Lars, right on his heels.  
  
The culmination of it all could very well have been unimaginably worse and Jason thanks his lucky stars as he allows himself a moment to just quietly sink into his seat. What this means for the remainder of the night, however, is purely up to chance because that’s the first and only time Jason has ever seen James react to something by visibly resigning. It was common knowledge that you did _not_ want to piss Hetfield off and Jason has seen the singer's eyes burn hotter than hellfire, has heard the anger in his voice that cracks like a whip—but this time, it just wasn't there. _Nothing_ was. The weight of the past three weeks has slowly started to take its toll on everyone and even someone as resolute and bullheaded as James could be beaten down by it all. Jason recalls the sheer exhaustion in Hetfield’s eyes during that final glance before he walked out on them and it stings.

Nobody says a word as they try to resume their daily motions, carrying on as if nothing had happened at all. They’ll deal with the repercussions later as soundcheck and showtime is quickly approaching, but as for now…

Man… _fuck_ Lars.  
  



	6. 12.5.1986 - Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, it finally happened--I finally missed my own self-imposed Saturday deadline, haha. Ahh well. Still updated anyways, even if it is on Sunday at (nearly) three o'clock in the morning.  
> In the spirit of slowburn angst fics, there is nothing but slowburning angst in this chapter. Things will pick up, but I figured I'd torture Jason (and all y'all who are reading) for a bit while I keep grinding out the rest of the story. I'm ready to hit the 25,000 wordcount milestone in my working draft and I'd just like to point out that it's because every time you leave a comment, I become more powerful. That's just how it works around here.
> 
> Enjoy.

**12/5/86 – Midday - En route to Quebec City**

If you were to tell Jason that the key to gaining Metallica’s approval was to lay down in the middle of the road and get hit by a truck, he’d do so without any apprehension. In Bobby’s own words—“The kid could eat, shit, and sleep _Metallica._ It’s fucking nuts.”

Which is why James’s deflection of Jason’s chipper “ _Mornin’, hoss!”_ spears the bassist right through his still tender heart.

It hurts enough knowing that James has been deliberately giving him the cold shoulder after what the band is now referring to as the “Beercan Blowout” and yeah, the frontman has earned every right to be upset. Of course, Jason did his due diligence and snagged James after the previous night’s set, firing off a barrage of apologies and explanations of just how all the beer got shaken at Lars’s suggestion, but all it earned him was a sour look and the words “ _And you really fuckin’ believed him?”_ , which bit into him with teeth crueler than anything else that could’ve been said.

Nobody loves Metallica more than Jason Newsted—again, Bobby’s statement still stands: The kid eats, shits, and sleeps Metallica—and that’s why it hurts so much when he greets James, thinking that the previous day’s events can be put behind them because _hey, they’re all adults_ , only for James to completely disregard his existence. Instead, the towering blond shoulders past him, heads through to the bus’s lounge, and fishes a beer from his road case. On top of it all, watching the singer give the can a cautious tap-tap on the side with three fingers before deeming it safe and popping the tab digs Jason even deeper into the remorse he’s been wallowing in.

He’s convinced now that the crack and hiss of a beer can opening is actually a dog whistle for Kirk and Lars, because within seconds they drag themselves from their shared bunk, half naked and grumbling and rubbing the previous night’s sleep from their eyes (and god knows what else from their noses). James peeks down the long aisle from the lounge to the back of the bus and when he sees Lars stumbling in his direction, he rises from his seat, grabs another can of beer, and heads straight to the bathroom. The drummer tries to intercept him at the door but the singer is faster, and James swiftly plants a palm into Lars's little chest and _shoves_ him—actually physically _shoves him_ —out of the way before slipping inside and locking the door. Kirk, astounded by the sudden display of aggression, supersedes Lars and raps lightly on the door with his knuckles, trying to coax James out with promises of peace and quiet. It only earns him a string of expletives fired off from the other side.

As Jason quietly watches all of this unfold, he can’t help but realise that they’re _all_ getting snubbed by James—Kirk included. It feels like walking on glass; this is such a face-heel turn from just days before and Jason can still recall the feeling of James crumpled against him in their shared bunk, passing the Vodka back and forth until finally falling asleep in each other’s warmth. It’s not just the notion of somehow falling out of favour with James that terrifies Jason—it’s the thought that everything he’s worked so hard for, all of the progress he’s made, all of the warmth and intimacy they’ve shared can be completely undone with one misplaced action.

Lars and Kirk retreat to the lounge to lick their wounds and as the drummer nudges past Jason, he pins him with a bitter glare.

“You really fucked up this time, didn’t ya, _Newshit_?” he spits before skulking over to the couch and perching himself on the armrest like a little cat, one leg curled up to his chest, the other left to dangle freely. He toes at an empty Hostess box before cracking a beer and letting out a long sigh. James is ignoring _him_ , too. _Whatever_. He finds comfort in knowing that even though his ship has sank, so has Jason’s. If they’re all gonna be in the shithouse then so be it because that means, at the very least, that _nobody_ is coming out on top of Lars fucking Ulrich.

Jason simply pays him no mind—he can’t afford to, because if he expends any more emotional labour he’ll be leaving the bus in a body bag—and instead cracks open (another) beer, gets comfy behind the tiny little dining booth, and slips a pair of headphones over his ears. He leans back and loses himself in some _Ohio Players_ as he feels the bus lurch into gear and roll out onto the road for the next two hour block of travel. 

They stop at a Mary Brown’s for an early dinner because Lars won’t quit bitching for _Chicken n’ Taters_ (and it’s not like they have anything to eat on the bus, anyways). After putting in their order and snagging a corner booth, Jason notices that their numbers are minus one. He looks out the large floor-to-ceiling window just in time to catch a glimpse of blond hair and leather jacket escaping back to the bus and his heart sinks just a little more. To add aches on top of pains, it seems that Jason is the only one to notice—let alone _care._ Kirk, Bobby, and Lars are all absorbed in their respective meals and have failed to mention the missing frontman, all more than happy to simply continue eating in silence.

“Guys, where’s James?” Jason pipes up, fishing more to confirm his suspicions than anything else.  
“Stop worrying about your boyfriend.”  
“I’m fucking serious, Lars.”  
“So am I. Just let him sulk. He’ll get over it.”  
“That’s not like James.”  
“It is _so_ typically James.”  
“I’ve never seen him shut down like this, there’s something wrong.”  
“You’re overthinking it.”  
“I’m not. I know James.”  
“You _don’t_ know James,” Lars scoffs through a mouthful of potatoes, shutting Jason down. “ _I do_. And I know he’ll get over it.”  
  
His comment cuts deep. Jason’s eyes dart between Bobby and Kirk, pleading for backup, but the two choose silent neutrality over the prospect of getting roped into an Ulrich-Newsted fight, so Jason goes back to picking at his chicken without a further word. For fuck’s sake, he’s not even hungry anymore.  
  
_You’re overthinking it,_ spoken in James’s voice, repeats in his head and that’s the nail in the coffin. It’s not the first time he’s heard it and it won’t be the last. He pushes the basket of chicken to the centre of the table—someone will finish it—and excuses himself. As soon as he’s out the front doors, he stands in the shadow of the bus and toys with the idea of hopping back on board because there’s a part of him that still has to prove to James that he’s worth giving a shit about, and another part of him that needs to show James that someone gives a shit enough to come looking for _him_.

 _You’re overthinking it,_ now spoken in his voice, repeats in his head and he decides that parking his ass on the curb and sparking up is a better alternative. He’s tired of the fights, of the constant verbal sparring and walking on eggshells, and if they all keep it up at the rate they’re going then none of them will be making it to the next venue alive.

 _You’re overthinking it_ , now spoken in Lars’s voice, repeats in his head and Jason lets his shoulders drop on an exhale. It’s clear that Lars isn’t doing this just for shits and giggles and this is more than just simple hazing—not to this degree, at least. Grief is a strange thing that works in stranger ways, and for James, Kirk, and Lars, grief has no place in their camp. They just simply don’t have the _time_ and they keep rationalising that grieving isn’t what Cliff would want. Grief, however, is no perfect stranger to Jason and he knows very well that jumping straight to the bottom of a Vodka bottle and staying there is _not_ how it’s processed.

Each musician has his own unique way of coping: Kirk hits the guitar, James hits the booze, and Lars is sustained completely on control— _thrives_ on it, even—and from the moment he deemed Jason was too close to James for his comfort, he put up his shield and sword and went to battle. Jason is unsure of why the drummer is so firm in keeping a tight rein on Hetfield (and, to an extent, Hammett), but he has the sneaking suspicion that it’s not about his relationship with the guitarists, but rather about assuring everything in his life structured and “right”. Lars is a manager, above all else—he manages the band, he manages money, he manages _people_ —and Cliff’s sudden and unexpected passing has done more than just upset his grasp on life. When your world is shaken upside down so badly, when everything has been turned completely on its head, the act of strangling the world around you to keep it from slipping through your fingers again is the only solution for someone like Lars. James and Kirk are floating variables that can be snatched away, too, and Lars is not about to let history repeat itself. Jason can’t help but wonder if Lars has always been like this, or if this is simply a product of having seen too much in too little time, before he even had the chance to grow up.  
  
Jason also can't help but wonder if Lars thinks about him that way, too—if he sees Jason as nothing more than just potential collateral damage that needs to be kept under constant watch out of fear of being taken away.

A wise man chooses his battles. Trying to contrive a win for himself in this situation is only going to dig him deeper into a hole that Lars can bury him under and that’s the last thing he wants. The reality is, Jason loves Metallica— _Lars included_ —and he reasons with himself that it’s still better to be in the band, despite all of the flak they’re giving him, than to not be in the band at all, because at the end of the day he still gets to get up on stage and do what he loves most. Grief is a machine that needs to run its course and he won’t hold it against the other three, no matter how badly he wants to.

The soft jingling of the bell on the restaurant's front door is his cue that Kirk, Lars, and Bobby are heading back to the tour bus and Jason snubs his joint out on the asphalt, deciding that it’s still best to let sleeping dogs lie. As he takes up the back of the line he tries to bury his feelings and put them to rest, but when he lifts his eyes and looks to the large window at the front of the bus, he sees a flash of golden hair as a head pivots on its shoulders in a weak attempt to hide the fact that they've been quietly observing him this entire time. The bassist finds a scuff on the toe of his sneaker and trains all of his attention on it because it hits him like a blast of buckshot.

Because nobody loves Metallica more than Jason Newsted.  
  


* * *

**12/5/86 – Post show, Late PM - Quebec City**

Despite the sour mood that’s been sticking in everyone’s side like a stubborn thorn, that night’s set is deceptively _good._ When Metallica finishes up their _final_ final encore (because they’re all too easily persuaded by the crowd for _one! More! Song!)_ , they shoulder their instruments and strut backstage, still high from the sheer energy of the crowd and basking in the glow of conquering another pinpoint on the map.

For a moment, time stands still and everything is back to normal, all smiles and giggles as if they’ve forgotten that they’re supposed to be angry with each other. Laughter bounces back and forth as sweat-soaked shirts and jeans are peeled off, trunks are packed, beers are cracked (sans explosions), and suddenly they’re back on top of the world. Even amidst the sea of roadies and tech crew that dart in and out like flies, Jason and James’s eyes manage to meet and the vocalist sends one of those notoriously broad smiles his way, making the bassist tight in the chest.

Bobby herds them back to their hotel suite—a fucking _suite_ —and as they come up to the door, Jason catches a glimpse of a paper tacked to it and the clouds he’s been walking on suddenly feel like a zeppelin going down in flames. It has to be an extra service bill or a complaint or _something_ that’ll inevitably be pinned to him because he’s the new guy, and the new guy always catches the fall for these kinds of things. Instead, “ _Alcohollica vs. Metal Church – The Drunkening,”_ has been scrawled in chicken-scratch letters across the back of that night’s setlist and tacked to their door, and Jason nervously gulps down air. James barks out a laugh as he kicks it open, leading the rest of the band through, and without warning all four of them are pelted with a barrage of empty Molson’s and a chorus of laughter.

“Welcome to _Church,_ Motherfuckers!”

Jason stares in wide-eyed astonishment; holy _shit,_ there’s just _so much booze._ Fifths, handles, quarts, litres—they’ve got it all—not to mention the numerous thirty-racks of beer stacked to the height of a table, and he forces down a walnut sized lump in his throat as he ponders whether he’ll actually survive the night with his liver intact. The boys in their opening act—Metal Church—have already gotten a good headstart, judging by their pink-stained cheeks and sheer volume alone, and the five of them all tip their beers, handles, and shotglasses in salute. Jason still barely knows them by name, having elected to refer to them by certain defining physical features instead: Mophead, Hairspray, Cheekbones, Tall, and Forehead.

“Are you ready to fuckin’ _drink_ , assholes?” Tall belts out, tossing a can of Carlsberg at James, who catches it with skillful hands. Jason winces as he watches the singer tap-check the can— _just in case—_ but he can't help himself from starting to wonder whether James is doing it simply out of spite or not. As libations are made to the touring Gods and bottles make their way around the room, the bassist can’t recall just when a beer was thrust into _his_ own hands, or when he was talked into having _one_ - _two_ - _three_ shots of Smirnoff, but he won’t complain. This could be fun, after all—assuming that Lars doesn't find an exciting new way to single him out and pick at him like some sort of annoying scab, just as he's been doing ever since this leg of the tour began.

Two handles of Vodka are passed about before finally landing themselves in the hands of a particular Danish drummer.

“Are you stupid fucks ready for _Bible Study_ or what?!” Lars cuts over all the noise as he tips them and drains their contents into a Styrofoam cup. “Because I sure the fuck am. Its about fuckin’ time we had a proper match against you assholes.”

_So they’re having a drink-off, huh?_

As Lars prattles on, Jason edges his back to the wall. It’s not that he feels particularly unsafe—it's just that he knows that somehow this will all loop back into him being hazed. _Somehow_. And if he can keep himself tucked neatly out of the way, maybe the others will be less inclined to rope him into another of their rituals. As if that weren't enough to process, there's James—James and his stolen glances, because _goddammit he keeps doing it_ —somehow, amidst the seven other men in the room, James still manages to pinpoint Jason and hold his gaze for just long enough to cause certain memories to bubble up to the surface, and if those weren't mixed signals enough, then Jason doesn't know _what_ the fuck they are. The bassist figures that it's much easier to stay out of the way than to play himself into another _Beercan Blowout_ scenario...or worse. He shudders as the image of Lars balanced against the frame of a dressing room door, drumsticks in hand and sneering, is replayed with vivid detail in his mind's eye.  
  
He takes a deep pull from his beer and suddenly wishes that he had eaten more for lunch earlier in the day, because the room is already starting to slant sideways. It's still a welcome distraction from Lars's ministrations and James's prying eyes, so fuck it: he may as well just get lost in the bottle tonight. Everyone else is, anyways.

Things are going to get interesting.


	7. 12.5.1986 - Part Two: The Drunkening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I finally updated on schedule! Now featuring our friends from Metal Church and enough vodka to get lost at sea in.
> 
> I don't have much to say regarding this chapter because I prefer to let the writing speak for itself, so I'll just leave you with a quote from my buddy Lee, the world's best beta reader: "Man, you are going so hard on this fic that I can't even handle it. You're gonna kill someone with this". 
> 
> I'd just like to state now that I'm not responsible for any harm sustained through reading. Y'all've been warned.  
> Have fun (and be safe).

**12/5/8, Alcohollica vs. Metal Church: _The Drunkening_**

“So this is how it’s played,” Lars’s green eyes scan the room; they’re sharp and attentive, not that far off from those of a bird of prey. “Me, James, and Kirk sit on one side of the room. Metal Church and Newkid sit in a line on the other. One of us three will ask a question. Since this is _Bible Study_ and we’re all Children of God, our topic is _Metallica_. We ask a question and everybody goes down the line answering, one at a time. You answer right and the buck stops with you, saving your teammates, and we go down the line with a new question. You answer wrong, you drink, and the next fucker down the line gets grilled, until someone gets it right. If nobody gets it right by the time the last fucker answers, whoever asked the question has to to finish his cup for asking a stupid fucking question. Now, is everyone clear?”  
“Wait,” Kirk swiftly interjects, concern colouring his face, “Why is Jase on _their_ team and not ours?”  
“Oh c’mon, Kirk,” everyone can practically hear the eyeroll in the drummer’s voice. “He’s not _actually_ in the band yet. He needs to cut his teeth on this tour before he can drink on our playing field.”

_Ouch.  
  
_Jason is glad he’s glued himself to the wall, safe and out of the way, because that _fucking stung._  
He knows that he’s a gun for hire—as painful as it is to admit it, because it’s not like Metallica is his favourite band in the world or anything—but constantly having his nose ground in the fact that he’s still not one of _them_ is a bitter pill to swallow. From across the room, Jason’s eyes catch Kirk’s and the guitarist offers him a silent apology. 

“Alright,” Lars clears his throat after a taking a noisy gulp from his cup. “Easy enough to play, right?”  
“Too fucking easy,” Hairspray chimes in and Jason can’t help but think he looks like a Bon Jovi clone, “Y’all wanna lose that bad, huh?”  
“Too easy? Fine then, let’s throw in some high stakes here: If you can match our drinks fist-for-fist, then we’ll buy you dinner after tomorrow’s show. But if _any_ of you pussy out or puke before we do, then it’s dinner on your dime.”  
“Then stop fucking talking and get drinking already, Lars.”  
“Shut the fuck up, James. Kirk, you go first.”

The two groups shift around as they split the room, Metallica (minus Newkid) on one side and Metal Church (with Newkid) on the other, and as Jason reluctantly takes a seat on the ground in between Mophead and Hairspray, he can’t help but feel like a perfect stranger to the three towering figures in front of him. His gut instinct was right—he knew they’d find a fun way to single him out and solidify the fact that he is, in fact, just a stand-in for this tour.

“Okay, okay…” Kirk bubbles out a giggle as he lowers himself to a sitting position on the ground, laughing at his own joke before he can spit it out, “How—How fuckin’ long can Lars talk for?”

The room erupts into laughter at the drummer’s expense. Lars attempts to act pissed but eventually dissolves with them, too influenced into having a good time by the booze in his cup. Mophead is the start of the line but he stumbles on his words, too caught up in laughing to get a proper answer out and is forced to drink as the next in line gets put under the gun—who just happens to be Jason.

Newkid takes a long pull from his beer and fires off at Lars, inspired by the liquid courage and the fact that somebody else did the honours of popping the _Let’s Dunk On Ulrich_ bubble for him.

“That’s a trick question because we _all_ know that he can talk for fuckin’ ever, man. Set him in front of a wall and he’ll talk the grout out from between the fuckin’ bricks”.

A chorus of hoots erupts from down the line and Jason looks up for just a moment enough to catch the crumpled-mouth scowl being sent his way. He just offers him a smile and a tipped-beer salute in return.

If Jason is in the Ulrich penalty box then he has nothing to lose. _Right?_

“That question fucking _sucked_ ,” Lars slurs over the rim of his cup as he joins Kirk on the floor, wobbling while he tries to seat himself without sloshing Vodka everywhere. “ _Overhoved ikke sjovt_. My turn, now.”

The game continues with Metallica boasting a lead of no less than three drinks ahead of Jason and Metal Church at all times—a win in the bucket spearheaded mainly by Hetfield, the resident drinking machine—and the questions range from pure dick-wagging ( _How many roadies has James bagged?)_ and outright silly ( _How many beers can Kirk shotgun during the bass solo—_ to which the answer was quite the impressive “three”) to verging on dubious in nature ( _What inanimate object would Lars be sent to jail for sticking his dick inside of?_ This answer to this question required a special “voting council”, to which the unanimous decision was that Lars would indeed be sent to prison for sticking his cock into a glazed donut—still in the display case at the bakery, at no less. Naturally, Lars is much less amused about this than anyone else in the room).

From across the room, James towers over the rest of the group like a sentinel, arms folded tightly across his chest as he watches everything play out. As questions are rattled off at a machine gun pace, the vocalist’s keen blue eyes meet Jason’s and he sends the faintest of smirks his way before turning his attention to a bottle of Jägermeister and pouring himself another shot. The searing heat that goes straight to Jason’s groin is distracting at best, utterly confusing at worst, because up until now it was obvious that Jason is still on Hetfield’s shit list—or at least _was._

Desperate, Jason seeks out to steal another glance but James’s eyes have landed elsewhere, and the bassist shifts his weight from one thigh to the other before deciding to rest his beer in the empty pocket between his crossed legs—lest anyone else notice what’s happening. He’s uncomfortably aware of himself now straining against his jeans and _goddammit,_ he absolutely hates how Hetfield has this effect on him. He’s been trying his fucking hardest to suppress it, keep it pushed down into the pit of his stomach and tucked away where it won’t bother him, but despite all of his willpower just a single well-directed gaze from James is strong enough to make Jason stand stiff at attention. It’s not like he’s been chewing on the things that have been happening between himself and the vocalist over and over again in his head, hyper-fixating on it like it means anything at all to either of them.

Still, the game continues on and as the booze continues to flow, the caliber of questions begins to suffer— _What colour underwear is Kirk wearing?_ _How many shots have I had? What’s Lars’s Middle Name—_ but the air in the room is light and laughter pours out just as easily as Vodka flows into his cup, and Jason readily welcomes it as an alternative to the crushing rejection that’s been staining the atmosphere for the past two days. Then, it happens again: James locks his stare on Jason with laserlike precision but this time, he holds his gaze and refuses to waver, even as he takes a slow (and somewhat suggestive—or at least Jason has successfully managed to misconstrue it as so) pull from a bottle of Smirnoff Red. It’s suddenly a hundred degrees in the room, Jason can’t breathe, and he has to find the neck of his beer bottle so he can wring it with trembling fingers because _fuck_ does James look good when he looks at him like that. It’s still hard for him to believe that at the same time last night there would’ve been no chance in Hell that James would’ve given him the time of day, let alone be making bedroom eyes at him from across the room.

Knuckles in his shoulder are enough to pull his attention away from Hetfield, and Jason turns just in time to catch a pair of chestnut eyes staring back at him from behind a curtain of hair.

“It’s your go, bro,” Mophead insists and Jason raises an eyebrow at him.  
“Wait, what?”  
“Answer the question, man! Get your head outta your ass and into the game! We’re falling behind!”

A nasally scoff cuts over the noise in the room and Jason doesn’t even need to think twice about who it came from.

“C’mon Newkid, you weren’t daydreaming about your boyfriend or some shit, were you?” Lars goads, the weight of a sneer pulling at one corner of his mouth. “Now, I’ll say it again once and _only_ once, so open your goddamn ears.”  
“I’m listening. Throw it at me.”  
“So,” Lars prefaces the question with a brief pause for emphasis, “Since everyone in here knows that Newdick is _gay,_ who in this room does he think is the most fuckable?”

Jason doesn’t stop himself when he bolts to his feet because he’s been banking on this moment for _far_ too long, but as he cranks back his arm and steels himself for the aftershock of the blow, several pairs of hands are on him and pulling him down and suddenly his ass is on solid ground again.

“Easy there, tiger,” the voice belongs to Tall— _John—_ Jason finally recalls that his name is John. “We don’t wanna kill anybody.”  
“That was fucking low, Lars,” comes another voice, and Jason pinpoints it as belonging to Cheekbones.”You’re lucky we didn’t let him belt you in the face.”  
“He deserved it. We shoulda let him.”

It’s a strange feeling finally being on the receiving end of some validation, Jason concludes, and while John’s words are like cold water on a burn, they still can’t stop the throbbing pain now taking up residence in his skull. The bassist figures it best they play another round as they let the room diffuse. After a few more drinks, however, Jason lifts his eyes and his heart sinks; across the room, James has seated himself next to Lars and the two are exchanging words, the Dane’s pointed nose poking up right against the shell of his ear. They’re close— _so close_ —but that’s not what’s frustrating. What _is_ frustrating, however, is catching a glimpse of James’s mitt of a hand slapped down on Lars’s leg, gripping at the meat of the drummer’s thigh with strong fingers. 

_Fine. That’s fine. Whatever. They’re just like that._

Jason tries to continue on with having a good time and finds a nice spot on the peeling wallpaper to fix his gaze upon, as difficult as it is, but as the rest of the band starts running out of steam (he looks at the clock and realises it’s 3AM) they start getting sloppy. And James, as the bassist has come to witness multiples times over, is quite the sloppy drunk, too. When Jason ultimately caves and gives in to the need to take a peek at Hetfield again because it’s been persistently dogging him since the last time, the blond is knocking back Vodka like it’s the last thing he’ll drink, and Lars…Lars is curled up on his lap as if he was _made_ to fill that space.

Saying that the visual is hard to swallow would be too lenient—Jason feels like he’s choking down razorblades _._ A thousand conflicting feelings all boil up to the surface and while half of him still wants to deck Lars in the face, the other half of him wants to _be_ Lars, because right now Lars is the object of James’s attention and that’s all that Jason wants. Resentment crystallises in his chest as he watches James slip an arm around the drummer’s waist, and in the brief silence between questions Jason takes the opportunity to pull himself to his feet and escape.

It’s cooler and quieter in the hallway and whereas he no longer feels like he’s trying to breathe through a straw, his head is still spinning from everything else and he presses his back to the wall, rests his head against it, and pushes his fingers into his eyes in a weak attempt to stop the pain. Collecting his thoughts is the least he can do at the moment, but that’s soon interrupted as he hears the distinct rattle of the doorknob and out walks James.

Man, he really can’t get a fucking break, can he?

“Whacha doing out here, Newkid?”  
“Mowing the lawn.”  
“Cute. Why’re ya not back in and drinkin’ like you should be? We got dinner to win.”  
“I thought I wasn’t on your team?” Jason raises a questioning eyebrow, still stung from Lars’s earlier comments.  
“T’fuck with Lars. You’re on _my_ team and that’s all that fuckin’ matters. Now we go inside and we drink.”  
“James, really?” Jason sighs out, letting his shoulders sag. He feels like he weighs six tonnes. “Just gimme a break. He’s been under my fucking skin all evening.”  
“Yeah, yeah, he’s being a little shit tonight.”  
“Then why do you let him call all the shots? Don’t you think he’s shit on me enough as is? If I’m ‘on your team’, then why can’t you ever put your ass on the line for me?”  
  
James is taken aback. He knows that Jason is being derisive—was expecting it, really, because why else would he be out here pouting in the hall—but being put on blast like that still feels like a kidney punch.  
  
“Look, I’ve told you before that he’s real good at being a cunt, okay?”  
“Yeah, and that’s why you don’t do anything to stop him.”  
“Come on man, you’re overreacting. Come back inside, Jase?”  
“No,” Jason bristles. “The last time you told me I was _overreacting_ I ended up earning myself two days in Hetfield’s fucking timeout corner. You’ve been ignoring me for _two days,_ Het. _Two.”  
_“A lot happened. There’s been a lot on my mind.” _  
_ “Lars tricked me into shaking some beers and you got drenched. _That’s it_. And yet your solution was to ignore everyone for two days? I’m not the one overreacting, James. And now you’re just waltzing out here to pick up where we left off? Gimme a fucking _break,_ man. You can dish it out as much as you like, but as soon as I send it back, all three of you guys get hurt feelings and shit.”

James’s indifference hooks Jason right where it hurts and as much as he wants to tell the singer to fuck right off, he just can’t bring himself to do it. He’s already flown too close to the sun and been burned and, quite frankly, he’s fucking exhausted. Still, the image of Lars nested comfortably over James’s thighs is too much for him to handle at the moment and there’s pointed arrows balanced on the edge of his tongue, ready to let fly as soon as James falters.

“I just…got a lot on my mind, okay?” Hetfield is sheepish now, unable to look Jason in the eyes. There’s a tinge of what might possibly be guilt in his face, but Jason won’t bank on it. Instead, the bassist bites down on his lower lip and lets his expression fold in on itself.  
“Like fucking _what,_ James? What could _possibly_ be going through your head that’s making active communication with your bandmates so difficult?”

Now it’s James’s turn to be stung. Has he really been this neglectful all along? He swears under his breath as he toes the ground nervously—this was _not_ what was supposed to happen. He came out here to reel Newkid back in, not push him away—but it seems that’s the only thing he’s managed to accomplish so far. Words were never James’s strong suit, anyways, and he silently chastises himself for his carelessness in handling everything. Admittedly, James is burned out from Lars’s behaviour as well, but is just too stubborn and bullheaded to admit that it’s too much for even someone as collected as himself to handle—Let alone _Jason._ They’ve all been coming down on Newkid— _hard_ —but Ulrich has been the absolute worst, and James eventually makes the connection that Lars’s handsiness is probably what sent Jason storming out of the room. As James picks up on all of the subtle cues like shards of broken glass and pieces them together, he realises he can’t let Jason slip away. Not now.

So, he resorts to the best way he knows: James clutches the moment to pin Jason against the wall and crush their mouths together.

The bassist feels stars exploding in his chest as his heart goes supernova because this is the only thing he wants— _contact, assurance_ —and after being given the cold shoulder for nearly two days, he was unsure if he’d even be lasting the rest of the tour.

James presses on for more, hungry and needy, and his hands are resting on Jason’s hips now. The vocalist’s touch does more than just send an electric shock through the bassist’s body.  
“To fucking _hell_ with Lars,” James grits out between laboured breath as he slides a hand down the front of Jason’s jeans. The bassist’s nerves catch right in his throat as he feels fingers palming at the denim, gripping at his rapidly stiffening cock through the fabric until James has a hold of him and he lets out a stifled yelp.  
“James, what the _hell_ are you—“  
“Quiet. You asked me what’s been on my mind, what’s been bothering me, and now I’m showing you. I’ve been thinking about this all fucking _week_ ever since Lars started cockblocking us, and now we’re gonna finish what we started.”  
“We’re in the middle of a _hallway_ , James.”

The singer relents, pausing to shoot Jason a furrowed-brow stare and the bassist knows exactly what that look says because he’s seen it a million times and he’ll see it a million times more— _Like that’s gonna fucking stop me_. Before Jason has a chance to voice his objections, James seals their lips together, making sure that the older musician continues to melt like butter in his hands.

It’s _good_ , Jason silently admits. He can’t help it—there’s just a certain magnetism about James that he can’t shake and it’s been hacking away at him like a bonesaw since the first day they met. There’s a sudden rush of blood to his head and a million indecipherable feelings that follow. Just what the _hell_ is James aiming to accomplish with all of these mixed signals? As their teeth click against each other, as fingers rake into each other’s backs like talons, Jason can’t help but shrink into himself even as James presses in for more, as much as Jason _wants_ him to. The singer is an Enigma machine of sorts that he just _can’t_ decipher and needs to, so very badly, and yet James won’t let him.

There’s another pressing issue that’s eating away at Jason, however, and that issue is _Lars._ Even though Jason is happily on the receiving end of getting James’s tongue shoved down his throat (and is more than happy to stay there), his brain can’t help but backpedal to the images of his bandmate with that hand gripping hungrily at the drummer’s thigh, or the drummer perched across his lap, or the look in Hetfield’s eyes as he sized Ulrich up like a piece of meat on a butcher’s block. Jason still can’t make sense of just what the hell the two are to each other—sure, they’ve known each other forever and are the last two remaining members of the original Metallica lineup—but in the grand scheme of things, Jason will always play second fiddle to Lars. _Always._

And, as if things couldn’t get any worse, Jason is now the exciting new subject of Hetfield’s boredom—or at least that’s what it fucking feels like. James has obviously grown tired of Lars and his micromanaging, and now that there’s some fresh blood in the water for the vocalist to distract himself with, Jason has become something for James to occupy his time when he needs to switch things up a bit. Upon this sudden realisation, Jason decides that _enough is enough._ He peels himself off the wall and slips out of James’s grasp. It’s too easy for him to pry the blond’s hands from him because all of the Vodka has made him pliant, and he makes a break for it back to his room, away from the bullshit, away from James, leaving the singer with a bewildered look on his face.

“…did I do something wrong?” James calls after him and there’s an indistinguishable hurt in the blond's voice that drives a nail through Jason, because it’s not James’s fault—although it really is—and Jason’s head is spinning so fast that he can’t make sense of his own thoughts anymore as they rattle around in his skull like marbles.

But it doesn’t stop him from walking away. Can’t stop him. Won't stop him.

“I need space,” is all he manages. He’s out of earshot of James now as he rounds the corner down the hallway but he says it anyways, because he needs to reassure himself, and it’s true—he’s so exhausted from the constant stream of mixed signals. What does James want with him? Hell, Does James even _like_ him? What the fuck is the deal with Lars, anyways? Why can’t Kirk or Bobby ever stop pulling their punches and stick up for him, either?

He’s not a plaything for Ulrich to yank around whenever he gets bored. He’s not a shock-absorber for Hammett who’s too scared to speak up. He’s not an emotional punching bag for Hetfield whenever he needs to unleash.

He arrives at his room door. With shaking hands, he puts the key in the lock and lets himself in, then throws himself down on the bed. Now is a good time to spark up a spliff and numb the headache, and he silently vows to himself that if _anyone_ tries to stick him with a service bill for the trashed suite (because he’s absolutely certain it’s going to look like a hurricane blew through it by the morning), he’s going to knuckle-down and crack some fucking skulls because he’s finally reached his limit.

As he mulls over the night’s events in his head—chews on them like a bit that’s been forced into his mouth—he makes his decision. If he can’t get through to James, he’ll go one rung up the ladder.

He’s going to have a chat with Ulrich after tomorrow's show.


	8. 12.6.1986

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Not only am I a day late but I'm also hitting y'all with the biggest plot twist known to man. It's plot relevant, I swear!  
> On a side note, I might go ahead and just change my uploading schedule to Sundays because work has been absolutely fucking relentless and I often spend all of my Saturdays sleeping now. We'll see what happens; my life is kind of a shitstorm and up in the air. I might have to give myself some breathing room and take a weekend off.
> 
> In the meantime, enjoy this deliciously horrible chapter.

**12/6/86 – Quebec City, Early AM, Hotel – Preparing to leave for Rimouski**

“You missed us totally crush Church last night. They’re buying us dinner after the show.”  
  
Kirk relays news of the final outcome of _Alcohollica vs. Metal Church: The Drunkening_ to Jason over breakfast in the hotel dining room. Unsurprised, the bassist pushes his flapjacks around his plate and attempts to appear as impressed as his hangover will allow him to. However, the pounding migraine right behind his eyes, coupled with the too-fucking-bright lights and the too-fucking-loud sounds of Bobby’s fork as it rakes across his plate really shortchanges Jason’s sincerity. This probably explains why Lars and James are currently missing-in-action—if Jason is _this_ hungover after clocking out early, then he can’t imagine how the other two are handling things. Or not handling things; they’ve been known to do that, too. He makes a mental note to stay out of their way once they return to the land of the sober and living.

“Jase?…Jase? _Jase?_ ”

A gentle elbow in his ribs pulls him back to reality; when he looks over at Kirk, there’s concern written plain and simple across the guitarist’s face.

“How’s life on Pluto, dude? You okay? You’re zoning out like a motherfucker.”  
“I just had had too much to drink, that’s all,” the lie rolls off Jason’s tongue more easily that it should and if it weren’t for feeling like the living dead, he’d be afraid of how it came to him with no apprehension whatsoever.  
“Yeah, that’s what James said,” Kirk turns his attention back to his omelette as his suspicions are confirmed, “Everyone went pretty hard on you last night. You’re lucky you bailed, though, because it only took, like, fifteen minutes after for that room to turn into a fuckin’ _vomitorium_ , man. It was so gross.”  
“I don’t even want to _know_ what that is, Kirk.”  
“A vomitorium,” Bobby interjects from over the rim of his coffee cup, “Is what you call the extra surcharge for all of the fuckin’ cleaning fees that Kirk, Lars, and James now owe the hotel.”

In the corner of his vision, Jason can see Kirk’s shoulders sag just a little lower. He’s trying his best to keep the mood light—he really is—and Jason can’t help but wonder how someone as mild as Hammett can stomach James and Lars’s constant stream of bullshit. Whatever is keeping the guitarist hook-line-and-sinkered must be pretty damn good; _it’s probably the paycheck_ , he suspects.  
  
An awkard silence seeps into the space between them all and it’s not long before Bobby rises from his seat, itching to get their asses moving and on the road.

“Right,” Bobby states flatly, fishing bills from his pocket to leave as a tip, “Bus call is in thirty; Kirk, can you go grab dumb and dumber? And if they’re covered in vomit, make them shower, okay? I don’t want them smelling up the bus. Lars is bad enough on a good day. Jase…” He turns to the bassist and lifts his Ray Bans, and the look he wears is apologetic, “you’ve been shit on enough for the past week. Go get your shit and be the first on the bus. I’ll handle the rest.”

Before Jason heads to his hotel room to grab his road case and bass, Kirk shoulders up to him in the hallway and presses a bottle into his hands. Jason turns it over, looking for a label to inspect, but the object is just smooth and blank.

“It’s lavender and rose oil,” Kirk assures him after seeing the confused look on his face, “try it for your hangover. Works pretty well—a few dabs on your temples should do the trick. Just don’t eat it, okay?”  
“Uhhh, sure. Thanks, Kirk.”  
“Happy to help,” Kirk sends him off with a tired but sincere smile before they part ways and head to their respective rooms.

_At least one of them gives a shit._

* * *

The rest of the day passes with Jason feeling like he’s lost in a haze—bus call, the ride to the next venue, lunch, and even soundcheck all manage to meld into one indiscernible blur—but Jason’s determination to confront Ulrich still hasn’t faltered in the least. If anything, it’s made him more resolute. 

It also seems as if Lars is actively _avoiding_ Jason, too. His interactions with the drummer have been nothing but prompt and only when absolutely necessary, and it occurs to him that maybe, just _maybe_ Lars has picked up on the aura of animosity enveloping the bassist like a thick fog.

Jason sure hopes so, at least.

As he searches for what’s quickly become the source of his perpetual migraine for the last twenty-nine days, he reconciles with himself that _yes,_ he is doing what’s right for himself. _Yes,_ he’s going to unashamedly make room for himself. He’s fucking earned it, and he’s going to get answers.  
  
He eventually finds the younger man in the tuning room, wrapping his fingers with drum tape.

“What do you want, Newkid?”  
“You. Me. We talk. After the show. _No_ _exceptions_.”  
The drummer doesn’t spare him a glance, instead choosing to focus on carefully guiding the clean white strip around a digit.  
“Fine by me.”

Jason grunts out an acknowledgement and turns on a heel—he got the answer he wanted and it’s time to head out. He can hear Ennio Morricone playing over the stage's PA system now and his skin pricks with electricity—a nervous energy is starting to flush through his system and he can feel it in his nose, his fingertips. He rocks on his toes as he prepares to go on from stage right and he chews the inside of his cheek to ground himself, because no matter how his day is going, no matter how many times he’s kicked around and shit on, the feeling of being in that spotlight and doing what he loves most is worth its weight in gold.

What happens off stage, however, is a different story—and tonight is no exception.  
But first, the show must go on.  
He’ll deal with all that shit later.

* * *

Jason has to admit it—that night’s show was fucking _explosive._  
  
Maybe it’s the promise of free dinner on Church’s dime, maybe it’s the purging of a week’s worth of friction and misdirected aggression, or maybe it’s the quiet anticipation of finally getting some fucking answers for once, but the moment they stepped foot on stage, all four of them are firing on all cylinders like some kind of killing machine and the inertia is still carrying them well into the night, despite the show being over. They’re too fired up to want to unwind—they need to keep going, keep crushing.

“Go, go get your free dinner! We’ll catch up!” Lars chimes happily as James and Kirk linger in the doorway. “Jason and I have business to talk with Bobby so it’ll be a few! Just make sure those fuckers from Metal Church have some whiskey and poutine waiting for me when we roll up!”

The looks they receive from the two guitarists edge on confused, but whatever—they silently slip out at Lars’s command. As soon as the door closes with a soft click, however, the drummer’s voice drops an octave and drips venom, and Jason can’t help but feel very, very small, now that it’s just the two of them alone.

“Alright, Newshit, say your piece. You wanted to talk to me? Then _talk._ ”

Jason’s mouth is suddenly full of sand—he was so resolute on having this conversation and now that he finally has Lars face to face, he’s stumbling.

“You know what this is about.”  
  
Lars snorts, expression glassy and dull as his eyes focus on the door instead of Jason, and he rolls the toothpick between his lips back and forth; a silent display of disinterest. 

“Don’t waste my time.”

He makes for the way out but Jason cuts him off, squaring his shoulders and trying his damnedest to make that three-inch difference in height seem threatening. Unphased, Lars presses on and tries to sidestep around him. He’s done this dance with Hetfield too many times to let someone as lukewarm as Newkid get in his way.

“ _No_ ,” Jason hooks an arm into the drummer’s chest. “I want answers. _Now._ ”  
“Is this some stupid bullshit about James?”  
“You know exactly what this is about.”  
“Look, if this is about the comment I made last night,” Lars lifts his eyes to meet Jason’s and they’re stone cold, “Then you need to get over it. We were playing a _game._ ”  
“Get over _what?”_  
“You see,” Lars stiffens, refusing to move despite the arm pressing into his tiny frame, toothpick in his mouth now being ground down to a nub. “I know what you’ve been thinking, and I know what you’re after. I caught you with his dick in your fucking mouth; do you really think I’m that stupid?”  
“Stupid isn’t the word I’d use, no.”  
“ _For Helvede,_ Newdick. Look, he isn’t into you like that. Lay off it. Give up. You guys probably haven’t even _fucked_ yet, have you?”  
  
Now it’s Jason's turn to go on the defensive because above all else, Lars is fucking _intuitive_. While Jason has been busy trying to wrap his head around everything at arm's length, Lars has been observing from thirty-thousand feet. Nothing—absolutely fucking _nothing_ slips under his radar, and suddenly Jason finds himself diminishing under those cold green eyes. He's so sick of being under Ulrich's microscope like he's something that needs to be watched and observed, and this is the straw the breaks his back. The muscles in his jaw involuntarily flex as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. So Lars wants to go there, huh?

“Don’t flip this on its head. I want to know why _you_ have a _problem_ with it, Ulrich.”  
“Oh, I don’t have a problem with it. It’s quite sad, actually, watching the way you’re pining after him like a blushing teenage girl.”  
“Watch it,” Jason rattles out. He’s going there. He’s _really going there.  
_ “No, Jason. You wanted answers? I’ll give you fucking answers.”  
“You’re derailing the conversation.”  
“To hell I’m not. How long have you wanted to fuck him for, huh? Right, _Newfag_? That's what you're after, yeah?"  
“That’s irrelevant.”  
“Oh, but it _is._ It’s _so_ very relevant, Jason. The sad thing is, James is so fucking _easy,_ too. He’s a huge fucking slut. He’ll fuck anything with a pulse. You know how many groupies he’s had? You know how many angry boyfriends and fathers have come after him for sticking his dick where it doesn’t belong?”  
“James is easy. So fucking what? What does this have to do with you constantly riding my ass about the stupidest, most minuscule shit?”  
“You’re missing my point, Jason: If James had even an iota of interest in you, he would have ploughed your ass to kingdom come and back by now. And as much as you’d like to think that you know James, you fucking _don’t._ Give up while you’re ahead. Stop making it hard on yourself.”  
  
Jason has taken to concentrating less on the words being lectured in his direction and more upon Ulrich’s mouth now; It wouldn’t take that much effort to land a fist square into his jaw, now that he thinks about it. He doesn’t even notice when Lars drills a finger into his chest as he continues his crusade, poking him right in the sternum to punctuate his sentence.

“The fact that James hasn’t fucked you yet is _astounding,_ really, because he’ll stick his dick in _anything._ He fucked Dave. He fucked Cliff. He fucked Kirk. Hell, I’d need a hundred pairs of hands to count the number of times he’s cornered me after a show, bent me over, and fucked me against a—“

Lars is cut off mid-sentence when a fist cracks into his jaw and sends him staggering back. He catches his weight on one foot, clutches a hand up to his mouth, and freezes in place, eyes widened and astonished as a little red ribbon starts to dribble over his fingers, and Jason can read his expression, as clear and as plain as day: _You actually fucking_ hit _me._

Jason rolls his neck as he grounds himself, ready for the moment the fire ignites in the drummer’s core and sends him flying at him, but _goddammit_ he’s been waiting to do this for so fucking long now. Lars comes at him screaming and Jason anticipates the kick, clamping his hands down around his ankle and uprooting him. Knowing he can’t square up against the bassist in a clean fight, Lars hooks him around the waist with his other leg in a drop and sends them both crashing to the ground.

They’re on the floor now, limbs twisting and tangling together like a mess of gnarled roots, and they’re tearing into each other with teeth and nails. Jason has a hold of Lars’s wrists, Lars resorts to snagging a stretch of skin on Jason’s neck between his teeth and digging in, and all it takes is a well placed knee between the bassist’s legs to get him on his back and suddenly the smaller man is straddling him. There’s too much friction, _too much fucking friction from that knee_ , and paired with teeth sinking into his neck Jason can’t help but shudder out a whine. He bucks his hips in an attempt to get Lars off of him but the drummer just presses in, throws his weight against him, and then suddenly the taste of copper pennies floods across his tongue as the drummer smashes their mouths together.

 _Lars is kissing him._  
It takes him a moment to grasp just what the _fuck_ is happening.  
Lars is _kissing him,_ and Jason’s cock is so unbelievably hard in his jeans right now it’d be shameful to admit it.

Something makes his grip loosen on the younger man’s wrists, and hands bring themselves up to cup at his face while that hot, wet mouth against his hungrily presses on for more. Everything is happening all at once and much too fast, and Jason can’t keep up with any of it as the drummer nips and tugs at his lip with teeth, ghosts his mouth down his neck, chest, navel. The button fly on his camo pants is hastily fumbled open just a bit too easily and then there’s slim fingers gripping his cock, twisting and pumping and _fuck_ it feels good. When Jason opens his eyes and gazes up at Lars, he sees the drummer on his knees and straddling his cock, spandex pants pulled down around his thighs, and spitting into his palm. 

“Don’t give me that stupid fucking look,” Lars barely manages to rasp out, pink flushing across his face, eyes dark and heavy with need as he takes Jason in his fist again and swirls a thumb over his head, spreading around the slick that’s gathered there. “I ain’t James, but I’ll give you what you want.”  
Jason’s breath snags in his throat— _this is really fucking happening_ —and as Lars sinks down on his cock he lets the moan that’s been clawing its way up his throat finally gush out.

_No, he’s not James. But he’ll just have to do._

The drummer starts up a sloppy rhythm, too fast and out of time—and Jason swallows down a laugh because it’s so typically Lars—but it doesn’t stop him from trying to match his pace. He locks his hands onto his little hips ( _fuck,_ he’s so tiny) and digs two thumbs in, and the sound Lars rewards him with makes his skin crawl. His bandmate only quickens the pace, bouncing with even more eagerness on his cock, and Jason is starting to feel the beginnings of a hot coil in his belly. It really won’t take much more effort to send him over the edge—At least, not with the way that Lars is peering at him from under heavy-lidded eyes, bottom lip pinched between his teeth while he rides his cock like it’s the last thing he’ll do because _fuck that’s hot._

“Oh come on, you fucking pussy, put your hips into it! _Fuck me, goddammit!_ ”

The drummer’s appetite verges on insatiable because Jason really is giving it his all, or at least he _thinks_ he is; still, he grips his bandmate by the hips with the intent to bruise and bucks up into him, hilting himself as deep as possible and soon he feels the drummer clenching around him as he rattles out a growl.

"Right there, Jase. _Keep going—fuck—right there._ ”

The drummer is gripping his own cock with a hand now, pumping furiously, and there’s a ragged edge to his breathing as Jason watches his shoulders heave. _Just a little more, he needs just a little more,_ and Jason is more than happy to give it to him because he’s close, too. With the last of his quickly unfurling resolve, he steadies Lars for one last push and fucks up into him so hard that his back arches off the floor, before finally spilling his load deep inside with a breathless sigh. The drummer grinds out a moan as he comes undone, too, thin ropes of cum spurting from over curled fingers and across the front of a Misfits t-shirt.

The brief pause that follows feels like the raising of a white flag; a _ceasefire.  
_ It’s like sixteen tonnes lift from his chest when he finally raises his eyes and locks them with the Dane’s. Where there was tension before there’s now clarity, and if this is what it takes for Ulrich to stop giving him holy hell, then so be it.

Wordlessly, Lars dismounts Jason and hikes his spandex back up on his ass before slipping off to the bathroom stall like nothing transpired at all.

As Jason lays on the floor, silent and unmoving, chest gently rolling as he steadies his breath from the comedown, he can’t help but ask himself what kind of fresh can of worms he just popped. In what’s been seeming like a string of perpetual losses, the absolute last thing he was expecting to happen was for him to dick down on Ulrich.

_Of all fucking people…_

He tucks himself back into his jeans and does the buttons up before rolling onto his shoulder and pushing himself back onto two feet. As he makes a half-hearted attempt at smudging the spunk plastered to the Fiend logo on his shirt, he questions whether this will help reconcile things between himself the drummer. Things have been getting fucking weird, but if this is what it takes to un-fuck his life then Jason is willing to make the compromise. He can't help but admit that this is a victory for him, because Lars just doesn't let this kind of shit happen with no purpose, and he's dreading the conversations that he's more than sure will follow. He just hopes that this doesn't suddenly drive a wedge between himself and James; the thought alone is enough to force him to swallow nervously as he fiddles with the stains on his shirt. What makes his heart sink even more, however, is when he finds himself asking if James would even care. He's not sure what upsets him more—the possibility that James could give less of a flying shit over knowing that he just fucked their drummer, or the fact that Jason _wants_ James to care that he just fucked their drummer. It's confusing, aggravating, tumultuous, and makes him want to cry, all at once—but he knows better. He pushes it down and doesn't let it get the best of him, because _he knows better_.

What's even worse, however, is the sudden conflict of interest that's made room in Jason's thoughts, spurred on by Lars's earlier comment— _He's not James, but he'll do._ The thought that's so terrifying to Jason now is maybe, _just maybe_ Lars will be enough. If Hetfield has no interest in pursuing him further, then why bother? It's been a constant stream of mixed signals since the start, and now that Lars has made it more than obvious that he wants Jason's cock, the question that's sitting in Jason's stomach like a stone is now _Is James really worth it?_ Once again, as he weighs in both sides of the scales, his mind circles back to the thoughts and images of how James _could_ be—the softer, gentler side of the guitarist that he guards so closely—and Jason can't stop from asking himself if finally fucking James has really been the end goal all along. Resentment soon dissolves into doubt when he makes the sudden and painful realisation that even though he just fucked Lars _,_ all he can think about is James. He doesn't want to settle for less.

And that's when it all clicks.

As he comes to grips with his feelings, he feels sick from how overpowering they are. He should have known there was a better word for it all along—not "idol worship", not "infatuation", none of that shit—it's as if the clouds have parted and with a sudden moment of clarity he knows what it is, can finally put a name to it...but he doesn't want to say it and at the moment, he _won't.  
_ Not now. Not yet. He'll cross that bridge when he comes to it.

Because, for now, while James is busy throwing a spanner in the works and stringing along everyone who will give him half a second, Jason will spare himself the hassle. The vocalist has so much baggage to slog through, so many pieces of himself to pick up, that Jason needs to step off to the side and let him heal, on his own terms. Because Jason has extended him that helping hand and only been bitten, and now it's James's job to put himself back together. Not Jason's job, not Lars's job, not Kirk's job. _James's job._  
Because for now...he's not James, but _Lars will do._

When the drummer comes trotting back from the stall he’s nothing but smiles and laughter—much to Jason's surprise, because he's fully worked himself up into a frenzy as scenarios of his bandmate demanding him to spell out what them fucking means for the band repeat in his head—and as Lars pulls his hair back into a loose ponytail and hikes his leather jacket up onto his shoulders, he must've caught on to the worry riddling the bassist's face because he's quick to give him a playful nudge in the ribs.

“Alright Newkid,” he starts as he pops open a tin of toothpicks and crams one in his mouth. “Let’s go get that free dinner.”  
“…Are you seriously going to just ignore the fact that we fucked on a disgusting dressing room floor?”  
  
Jason inwardly kicks himself over the words that managed to spill out of his mouth, because this is exactly the conversation he _did not_ want to have and has been actively avoiding. He sucks in sharp breath as he prepares himself for the repercussions and allows his fingers to fidget nervously with the hem of his shirt. Instead, the drummer offers nothing further than a nonchalant shrug, rolling the toothpick between his lips, and the bassist is unsure of whether it's a good sign or not.

“It was bound to happen. _Whatever_. If we blew off some steam by fucking, then so be it. Would you rather continue having a fistfight?"  
“…Okay. I see what you mean.”

Lars has a point. Still, the comments from earlier cut deep and it’s so hard to _not_ let them persist, but Jason pushes them down because he’ll deal with them later. He wants to drink in this victory, no matter how small, because to him it feels monumental. He grabs his jacket, too, and with Lars at his side he makes for the door.

“And y’know what? I knew you were cute, but you’re also not half-bad of a lay, either, Newkid,” Lars adds as he slaps a hand down across his ass, cackling as they leave the venue and head out to the bar. The younger man’s laughter is infectious and Jason can’t help but join in, too drunk on the afterglow to care anymore. 

He’s not James, and Jason knows this.  
But still; _he’ll do._


	9. 12.7.1986

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I was rushing so hard to get this chapter uploaded that I forgot to put my usual notes at the start. Hah!  
> Anyhow, I crown James patron saint of blueballs. Will he ever get any action? At this rate, probably not. At least Jason seems to be getting some left and right (eyes emoji).
> 
> Enjoy.

**12/7/1986 – En route to Victoriaville – Tour Bus**

Have you ever existed in the eye of a storm before?  
  
There’s a certain tranquility that comes with the silence as your world is slowly torn to bits around you. Everything you know and love is uprooted and engulfed by the whirlwind but you persist, even gaining some degree of clarity, as you’re trapped within the liminal space of life and death.

This is how Jason currently feels—like he exists in the eye of a storm. He remembers the tornado sirens when he was a child; he’d hole up in his basement with his family and his entire world would rattle, and then it would pass. His dad would say to wait, stay still and be silent, because the eye of the storm was passing over and it would be only a matter of seconds before the tail end followed through and ripped up everything in its path. Sometimes it would, and sometimes it wouldn’t, but the feeling was always the same for a young boy who couldn’t quite grasp the magnitude of the situation at hand but still found it exciting either way: suspended in a delicate sense of balance, a feeling that was something between pure exhilaration and dread.

Lars’s stare from across the tour bus is making those long dormant feelings bubble up in his throat right now—quiet, burning anticipation stained with persistent anxiety. His head is spinning like a top, caught up in his own personal storm, and the whole scenario is just a bit hard to grasp because at this exact same time just the day before, the glare that Lars was giving him was filled with raw contempt— _not hunger._

He can’t stop thinking about it, either—how one second they were at each other’s throats and the next they were fucking like it was the last thing they’d do—and if his sexual frustrations with Hetfield weren’t enough to make the time spent in the close confines of the bus difficult, this new (and admittedly exciting) tension between himself and Ulrich was enough to make him consider pulling the latch on the emergency exit and ejecting himself into oncoming traffic.

He’s trying his hardest not to return the gaze that’s fixed his way, even though he _wants_ to, because he’s still caught in the middle of processing what happened the night before and just mere seconds before Jason gives in to his more primal desires, a towering frame cuts into his line of sight and spares him the headache.

Jason lets his eyes wander up, up, up the black-clad figure until they meet James’s, and something makes him instinctively swallow.

_What does he want? Does he somehow know about what happened between himself and Lars? Is this it? God, have mercy—James is gonna grill his ass like a steak._

“Got a moment, Newkid?”

_Ah shit. Here we go._

“…Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

James’s expression softens with Jason’s deference and then he’s smiling in his direction. The bassist is unsure of whether he’s somehow gotten lost in translation, but god be damned—that smile looks _genuine._

_Just keep cool, Jase. He’s gauging you._

“Good. Grab your jacket, it’s chilly out," Despite his warm demeanor, James's suggestion still sounds more like a command. Then again, that's just the kind of person Hetfield is. "Meet me outside of the bus when we park?”  
  
_Wait, what?_

“Uh,” sputtering, Jason reaches for his denim jacket that was _supposed_ to be slung over the back of the bus booth but is now magically missing in action, and his hands search more and more frantically as he realises he probably looks like an enormous idiot. “Uhh, sure, uhh—goddammit, it was just here— _Fuck.”_

Laughing softly, James dips down beneath the table booth, plucks up the garment that’s been on the floor the entire time, drops it in Jason’s laugh with nothing more than a wink, and turns on his heel to head to the front of the bus so he can ride shotgun with their driver.

“I’ll be waiting,” he chimes over his shoulder, leaving Jason slack-jawed and senseless and with a bright tinge of red flushing over his cheeks.

_Oh, hey there buttterflies. It’s been a hot minute since you last took up residence in my stomach._

It's gonna be a rough day.

* * *

Contrary to Jason’s initial presumptions, James did _not_ drag him out of the bus to chew him out. As a matter of fact, there’s no talk of the previous days’ bullshit when Jason takes his spot at the blond’s side before they head out. Wherever James is walking him, he has no clue, but admittedly it’s like a breath of (literal) fresh air to finally be off the bus and away from Lars’s glare burning into him from across the lounge.

Downtown Victoriaville is quaint—almost homesickeningly so—and already shopfronts are starting to line their windows with wreaths, hang festive lights from porches, perch rotund little smiling Santas outside of doors, and Jason can’t help but feel just a sliver of the Holiday Spirit seeping in and lightening the mood.

Just as long as they leave the Christmas carols on mute, that is.

His hopes are dashed, however, when James leads them into a little secondhand record shop and the first thing Jason hears is _Last Christmas_ playing on the stereo. Without a word, the two exchange looks and make a weak attempt at stifling their laughter before the cashier welcomes them in, and they decide it best they make a beeline straight for the metal albums. Once they’ve had their fill they’re quick to leave, then repeat the process whenever James spots another neat little place to check out next. They dip in and out of bookstores, souvenir shops, any place with a quirky enough name or colourful enough sign to grab their interests, and as Jason watches James card through a rack of secondhand leather jackets in a musty little thrift shop, completely disarmed and expression a mixture of soft and round lines, a feeling that’s ever so bittersweet solidifies in the bassist’s chest.

This is the first time they’ve been not just alone, but alone and _sober_ , and seeing James through unhazed lenses is doing more than simply making Jason appreciate his time with James. It’s making him want _more._

Jason has known the vocalist for approximately thirty days (and he knows this, because he’s been keeping count), and within those thirty days, he’s not only laughed, cried, shared meals, shared rooms, shared shirts, smoked, drank, puked, and passed out with him. Additionally, he’s also comforted, confided in, consoled, and even fucking got frisky _—_ not to mention _fought—_ with James within that span, too, and it’s still a hard pill for Jason to swallow because after all, James has been his _idol_ ever since he bought his copy of _Kill ‘em All_ back in '83. Getting hired to fill Cliff’s boots is a dream come true for Jason—although he absolutely wishes it were under different circumstances, because the subsequent exposure to all of the wretched, nasty grieving and self-destructing is more than hard to digest.

But right now, there’s none of that. There’s no vodka, there’s no tears, there’s no rage. There’s just quiet contentment as Jason continues to watch James try on jacket after jacket, and he smiles when James asks how he looks and laughs when the vocalist gets his arm stuck in a sleeve that’s too small for him. It’s easy to recognise the warmth that’s seeped into the gap between them as they go about their day together, and Jason wishes he can stay folded into this moment for the rest of time because _this_ is the James he’s been wanting to see so badly again. Quiet, smiling, laughing James, with no barriers, no walls. This is one of those fleeting moments that Jason won’t be able to have again, at least for a long while, and he holds it in him like something precious.

They find themselves at a small mom n’ pop style diner for lunch and for some odd reason, the short distance across the table suddenly seems like an ocean between them, and Jason watches James fidget nervously in the booth as he pokes at his food. The blond is quiet and, while this behaviour isn’t atypical because James is known within the band as _the quiet one_ , it’s easy for Jason to read between the lines and pick up on the unsettling silence that’s gripped James and won’t let go.

“You’re quiet, Het.”  
“I’m always quiet.”  
“Quieter than normal. What’s bothering you?”

James is cut off when the waitress sets a plate of eggs benedict in front of Jason, and the bassist thanks her in the broken French he’s picked up from their small span of time spent spent in Quebec. Once she’s gone, Jason fixes his bandmate with a questioning stare, his way of poking for answers. James glances up and when their eyes meet, Jason hitches an eyebrow at him to signal he’s still expecting a response.

“Look,” James eventually manages between a mouthful of brisket sandwich, the feeling of Jason’s eyes on him prompting him to produce an answer, “I feel truly, genuinely, honest-to-god fucking _bad_ about what’s been going on between the three of us. It ain’t right.”

Jason pauses for just a moment to send him a pointed look from across the table—that’s not what he was expecting to hear. James’s eyes are angled down, fixed on his plate, but still—Jason sees the worry written in every crease, every line in the singer’s face, in the dimples that bookend the seam of his mouth (but only when he frowns, Jason has learned), and it’s how the bassist knows the feeling is sincere. Still, he can’t pass up the opportunity to take the piss outta James and he points an accusing fork in his bandmate’s direction.

“Is this the party where you actually say fucking _sorry_ for once? I’m going to die of shock, Het.”  
“No. Really,” The vocalist’s eyes remain lowered, as does his voice, “This is why we’re here, just the two of us, having lunch. Nobody else. I feel bad that Lars has been shitting all over you since day one. I feel bad that you’ve kinda just been expected to fend for you own. I feel bad for what _I’ve_ said and done, Jase, and I need to make it up to you, personally.”

The waitress returns with another beer for James and the singer clutches it with anxious hands, sliding it in closer to his chest as if it’ll offer him support. Slowly, Jason lowers his fork—goddammit, why did James have to be so fucking _disarming_ whenever it was just the two of them? Not only that, but his usage of the name _Jase_ only serves to further needle him where it hurts, because _Jase_ isn't what his bandmates call him: it's what his _friends_ call him.

“I realise it’s not fair to you—I _do,_ ” the younger man continues and there’s a quality to his voice that’s starting to diffuse any desire Jason has to criticise the way he’s been acting lately. The bassist sets his fork aside and leans his elbows on the table, resting his chin on top of folded hands as James continues.

“Looking back, it’s like watching a car cra—“ James’s words snag in his throat. He pauses, rectifies himself, and continues on. “It’s like watching a…dumpster fire in hi-fidelity. I’ve been too dismissive of the way Lars has been acting. I’ve been way too hard on you, too. There have been times when I should’ve stuck up for you and instead did nothing.”

Jason is taken aback. James still hasn’t uttered the dreaded s-word, but his acknowledgment is still enough to let him know that the singer is finally deciding to confront all of the bullshit and actually _work_ on it for once. Where this newfound maturity in James came from, he doesn’t have a clue, but now he has an even bigger problem: This still doesn’t dismiss the fact that Jason is now feeling _guilty_ for fucking Lars in the dressing room the night before and it’s even worse that James has no idea. Now it’s Jason’s turn to be nervous and he decides on the spot that he needs to come clean, before this all turns around to bite him in the ass.

“Hey, Het,” He cuts off James mid-sentence. “Can we talk in the bathroom real quick?”

James looks surprised but gives him a nod in compliance, and he fishes out some cash from his jeans for the bill and leaves them tucked under his beer. As the pair head to the bathroom, Jason mulls over how this conversation is going to pan out. Will James be pissed? Is this going to lead to another two days of getting the Hetfield silent treatment? What if it’s the rest of the tour? Will he be _fired_? He can feel the sweat starting to gather at his temples as he becomes increasingly aware of just how much of a bind he’s landed himself in. Every step towards the bathroom door feels like one more step towards the hangman’s noose.

James opens the door and lets Jason through, and once they’re inside the bassist hears the distinct click of a lock turning; he anxiously curls his fingers into his palms.

“Alright, Jason,” James starts, turning to face his bandmate and he balances himself on the edge of the sink. “I’m all ears.”  
“I…uhh, well…” Jason stutters. He wasn’t expecting James to be this receptive and the singer’s blue-eyed gazed from across the bathroom is igniting that familiar flame in him yet again.  
“ _Well?”  
_“It’s… _complicated._ ”  
  
The vocalist cocks an eyebrow, slides off the sink, and in the time it takes for him to close the gap between himself and the bassist, Jason’s heart claws itself up into his throat and stays there. His brain is starting to entertain some serious second thoughts about admitting what happened between himself and Lars—at least, not when James is giving him a look like _that._

“Complicated?”  
“…yeah, yeah, you could say that…”  
“How so?”

Jason’s mouth goes dry as James closes in, and he reflexively takes a step back.

“C’mon, I’m trying to make things up to you, Jase,” the vocalist is wearing an apologetic smile and it’s clear that he’s trying, and it _hurts_.  
The bassist shies away, taking yet _another_ step back because now he’s overwhelmed. Here’s James, open and honest and _finally_ fucking trying to change for the better, and Jason is about to piss it all away by admitting he and Lars fucked. Saying he has cold feet about the whole ordeal would be a vast understatement.  
  
Admittedly, James has fucked Lars, too, and it really shouldn’t matter where Jason has had his dick because they’re _not_ exclusive. _Fuck_ , they’re not even close to that, Jason reminds himself, and his breath hitches when he feels his back finally edge up to the wall. James is still closing in and with himself up against the tile, Jason has no choice but to let him. Then again, James's sincerity, his willingness to hear Jason out, and the fact that he’s truly trying to put out the fires he started—despite being _terrible_ at it—really speaks for itself. The bassist is soon reminded about the indescribably magnetism that the vocalist carries with him like a charm, and maybe, just maybe it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie. Lars is but a stepping stone on a broader path and Jason isn’t about to let him get tripped up in what’s already been said and done. _Look forwards, not back_ , he assures himself.

“Hey, c’mere,” James’s tone is honeysweet and Jason allows himself to be strung along, a burning curiosity ready to get the best of him. The singer takes him by the hand to reel him in closer and then he’s being pulled up against the vocalist, hip to hip, strong hands balanced delicately on his waist. When he lifts his eyes and they meet with James’s he sees galaxies in them, wide and bright, and slowly, the gap between their noses is starting to close, as if two invisible forces are pushing them together.

“Now that I’ve got you alone in here…” The singer begins, his mouth close enough for Jason to feel hot puffs of breath on his face. “Just shut up…and let me make it up to you.”

So Jason lets him.

It feels like he’s always crashing in the same car, over and over again—but this time he knows better. As his lips meet James’s, he can’t help but drink in that rush of exhilarating bliss because James’s touch is like finally breaking for air after holding his breath for so long. This is different from the drunk and stoned session in the hotel room, different from the blowjob backstage, different from their encounter in the hall just nights before, because now it’s cemented by a mutual agreeance that, yes, they both _want_ this.

Hands make their way down to the fly on his jeans as he presses into James for more and then fingers are wrapping themselves around around his cock. Jason lets a moan bubble out against his bandmate’s lips as James starts up a steady rhythm with his hand, and then there’s suddenly the feeling of something that he can’t quite place. He pulls back to suck in a breath and when he glances down, there’s James’s cock pressed right up against his, with the blond’s massive paw clamped around both of their shafts like a vise.

Jason stifles back another groan by pinching his bottom lip between his teeth because _fuck_ , that’s hot, and slowly, James starts working up a rhythm again, pumping both of their cocks in time. Amid the ministrations from the vocalist’s hand and the shallow thrusts of his hips that he’s starting up to keep the friction going, it’s not going to take much for Jason to come totally unglued. He lets the singer rock him into a steady motion and it feels like his cock is slipping against silk—there's so much precum smearing down their shafts between them—and James's hand only assists in spreading around the slick.

“C’mon, buck up into my hand.”

Jason does what he’s told—and _goddamn_ does it feel good. James is leaning in for another kiss now and it’s almost too much to handle when a tongue pokes itself into his mouth. Their contact deepens when he lets the singer explore his mouth, and it earns him a growl of approval from low in his throat. The guitarist’s pumping is speeding up, getting faster and faster, and Jason has to break for air and swear under his breath when he feels himself starting unravel.

_"That’s right, Jase, let it out.”_

His bandmate’s praise surges straight to his cock and their mouths crash together one last time as the heat in his belly starts to crest.

If Jason’s head is swimming, then James is absolutely _drowning_.

He can’t remember how long it’s been since he first realised he’d become lost in the depths of his bassist, but what he _does_ know is that he’s not about to stop. Things have been tumultuous, to say the least, and he still has so many hangs up— _so, so many hangups_ —but despite the apprehension to let somebody else take up residency in his heart, letting Jason in just somehow feels right. It’s inexplicable and confusing and terrifying, all at once, and isn’t unlike that of toeing the edge of a cliff, but James doesn’t want to stop now. Admittedly, he probably couldn't stop, even if he wanted to.

He can see colour starting to creep into Jason’s complexion, see the way that his shoulders heave in time with the pumps and thrusts, and he drags a tongue across his bottom lip as he widens his stance to get better leverage. There’s hands digging into the muscle of his upper arms now, grasping for anything and everything, and James watches hungrily as the bassist’s bottom lip quivers from the heightened sensations. Just a bit more… _just a bit more…_ James snaps his hips, sliding his cock up against Jason’s at just the right angle and he hears his bandmate choke back a whine.

Jason tosses his head back as he spills himself over James’s hand, and that’s when the vocalist sees it—the angry reddened hickey on the bassist’s neck—and it makes him stall for just long enough to have Jason asking what’s wrong after he finishes riding out his climax.

To James’s knowledge, the groupies haven’t been passed around ( _yet)_ and they’ve all spent so much of their time in such close proximity that it would be difficult for any of them to sneak off and score without someone catching on. Now that he comes to think of it…Jason and Lars have been strangely amicable with each other since the previous night, and this morning Lars was practically burning a hole through the back of Jason’s head. Unfortunately, James is all too familiar with that searing glare and as he lines up the parallels in his head, something inside of him begins to sink. He wants to give Ulrich the benefit of the doubt, but this is something that's going to eat at him for as long as he goes without an answer. Now, if he can just get Lars alone...

Jason brings a hand up to his face to swipe away strands of loose hair, a broad smile smeared across his face, and that’s when James catches a glimpse of something that drops a brick into his stomach: The time on Jason’s wristwatch.

“James? You good?” the older of the two asks, noticing the glazed-over look in the guitarist’s eyes.

Without a word, James yanks Jason’s left wrist back, moving the face of the bassist's watch closer for inspection and lo and behold, the minute hand is perfectly lined up with the number nine, giving them just fifteen minutes to three. His bandmate lets out a confused noise when he loosens his grip on their cocks and hurriedly stuffs himself back into his jeans, swearing as he urges Jason to do the same.

“Fuck! _Fuck!_ I hate to cut this short, Newkid, but we gotta _move!_ ”  
“Wait, what? _Why?!_ ”  
“We’re gonna be _late_ ,” Panic has set into Hetfield’s voice now and he’s frantically grasping for the latch on the door, “We got fifteen minutes!”  
“Late for _what_?!”  
“ _Soundcheck_ , asshole!”  
“Oh, you’ve gotta be _fucking kidding me.”_

They practically tumble out of the bathroom, scrambling ass over tit in a mad dash to get back to the venue because god knows that Lars is going to take his sweet time grilling them like a fucking steak if they’re even ten seconds late. They bolt out of the restaurant, down the street, down the _next_ street, narrowly miss getting hit by traffic, dive into the bus to grab their tour laminates, and even when they can see roof of the venue creeping up from over the horizon as they round another corner, they don’t ease up until they’re at the doors, pounding on them for someone to let them in and doubled-over from breaking the world record for sprinting. After navigating a maze of hallways and twists and turns, they all but bust down the dressing room door with a single minute left on the clock.

Lars and Kirk pay their arrival no mind; the drummer is just finishing up taping his fingers and the guitarist is absentmindedly plucking away at a string, twisting the tuning key in frustration when the note falls sour.

“Finally decided to show up, huh?” Bobby’s tone is cool and flat—more curious than curt—and he throws the pair their schedule for the evening, bulleted out on the back of a Mary Brown’s napkin. From across the room, Lars turns his head just enough to lock eyes with Jason and suddenly the atmosphere is sweltering. The drummer tosses the roll of tape into his road case and rises from his seat, sticks in hand. He swaggers his way to the door, but not before shouldering into Jason and pinching a handful of asscheek. _Good boy, you made it back for soundcheck in time_ is purred into Jason's ear before the drummer heads off to the stage.

The bassist glances around the room; _thank fucking god_ , nobody saw that. Ulrich is fucking bold for making a power move like that—especially with the rest of the band present. Jason has been so enveloped in everything else that he completely forgot about the drummer's decision to make him his new object of attention, and the bassist is back to sorting out how he’s going to undo this whole mess again—caught in the proverbial eye of the storm, so to speak.

_Fuck._

As he shoulders his bass and clips the wireless transmitter to his waistband, he can't help but realise that the time will eventually come where he has to admit to James about what transpired between himself and Lars—not because it _matters_ , per se, but because he'll never be able to live with a clean conscience if he doesn't. He’ll put out that fire when the time comes, though. 

For now, he doesn’t even have time to acknowledge how he’s balanced on a razor’s edge.  
He has a show to play.


	10. 12.8.1986

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jason just can't get a break, can he? Pray for my manz. Sorry for the runaway chapter! I got so carried away writing and I had so much to say that it didn't feel right potentially breaking it into multiple chapters, so please enjoy 3.8K words of Newkid hazing.  
> This chapter is more Ulrich and Hetfield centric than anything else but seeing as it drives the plot, I hope y'all don't mind.
> 
> Also: We did it guys! We broke the 30K word barrier! Let's shoot for 50K next!!!

**12/8/1986 - Halfway to Toronto, Hotel - 8PM**

  
“Guess what day it is!”  
“…December eighth?”  
“It’s this stupid fucker’s one-month mark with Metallica, boys!”  
“So what the fuck do we do?”  
“Let’s _kill_ him.”  
“Nah, we still need him to play shows. Let’s do the next best thing— _get him piss-drunk off his ass!”_  
  
Lars punctuates the statement with an upsetting cackle—the kind that usually indicates that he’s up to no good—and when Jason hears it, it makes his skin _crawl_ because he’s been on the receiving end of that laughter for weeks now, even though things seem to be patched up between the two of them.

He’s still wrangling a shirt over his head when the unanimous decision is made that they’re going to take him out drinking to celebrate and it takes him just a moment to grasp the concept of _holy shit he’s been playing with the band for an entire month now._

Despite all of the shit he’s endured it still feels like one big fever dream; _Imposter Syndrome_ doesn’t even begin to describe what he’s feeling. He’s been waiting to suddenly wake to the feeling of Eric or Kelly slapping at his cheek, for himself to bolt upright in bed and glance around and realise he’s still at the Flotsam house back in Phoenix. That moment still has yet to come, however, and for as long as time permits he’ll continue to float through life with a feeling of sheer elation, continue his ghost walking through it all.

Once everyone is properly clothed and ready, the band—and a reluctant tour manager in tow—sets out in search of libations. There’s a bar just down the street from the hotel and Jason isn’t surprised in the least bit that James has already scoped out the closest booze spots in advance. The singer has a nose for alcohol like a bloodhound and it’s almost as if this has all been premeditated.

The spirits are high, however, when they stroll into the shady little hole-in-the-wall and the whole place just screams _O, Canada:_ from the rack of moose antlers above the bar to the maple-leaf-everything decorations. It’s a Monday night so the place is relatively empty save for five figures seated at the bar, and when John swivels around in his stool, shotglass in hand, Jason can’t help but crack a smile as his assumptions are proven right.

“Heard it’s some Newkid’s big fuckin’ day! Congrats, bud,” John gives him a hearty slap on the back as he takes the open seat next to him, and the rest of Metal Church join him in giving Jason their most drunken but well-meaning regards. He hasn’t partied with them since the _Alcohollica vs. Metal Church:_ _The Drunkening_ incident and it’s a breath of fresh of air to be able to throw down with more than just the guys. James seats himself next to Jason and Kirk and Bobby follow suit, but the bassist doesn’t miss how Lars makes a break straight to the register and puts in an order—undoubtedly for him. Existing in the same space as Ulrich is a game of Russian Roulette because at this point, Jason is unsure whether he’s going to be subject to the drummer’s scrutiny or screwing him into the floor when everyone has their backs turned, and there’s no real way of discerning which outcome he’s going to get.

When the drummer returns, he has an empty shotglass in one hand and what looks like a litre of _not_ alcohol in the other, judging by the way the amber liquid oozes around the bottle, and Jason takes note that it’s way too viscous to be booze—not too far off from syrup, actually.

Lars drags a stool over and happily inserts himself between Jason and John, using his elbows to make room and they have no choice but to let him. The bassist can overhear James putting in an order with the bartender for a round of shots now; from the corner of his eye can already see Kirk haunting the jukebox in the corner, flipping through the bar’s music selection and chatting with some girl who’s come to join him.

Honestly? It’s not too bad, for once, even if there’s an all-too-high chance of them punking his ass somehow. He’s in good spirits with good company and there are little things at the moment that could take his good mood away from him.

“Cheers to Newkid!” someone belts out after their fist round of shots are sliding down the bar. To his left, James has his raised in his direction and the guitarist offers a little smile and a wag of the eybrows from over the rim of the glass. One makes its way to Jason but before he can swipe it up, something swats his hand away. 

"I don't think so," Lars cuts, pushing the shot away from him. "You can't drink with us. At least not yet."  
  
With that, he climbs up onto the bar stool and would have scrambled up onto the bar, if it weren't for a very disgruntled bartender keeping him from doing so. For now, the stool will have to do for his makeshift soapbox.

“Here’s to Jase!” he belts out, wobbling precariously on the chair, the empty shotglass and mystery liquid bottle still clutched in his little hands. “Everybody give this drunken idiot a huge fuckin’ congrats for surviving touring with us for this long! And now it’s time to toughen him up even _more_.”

Jason can’t stop the reflexive eyeroll— _here we go again._ He also doesn’t let how James shifts uncomfortably in his seat next to him go unnoticed, either.

“How many days have you been touring with us for, Newkid?” The look that Lars sends Jason from up above is predatory at the worst, condescending at best.  
“Thirty,” Jason eases out, but there’s a hot edge to his voice that indicates he’s ready for whatever Lars is about to spring on him.  
“Great! At least one of us is sober enough to keep count.”  
“So why does this matter?”  
“Because you’re gonna earn your place to drink with the big boys tonight.”  
“I’m flattered.”  
"C’mon, Jase, you could be my right hand man! Don’t you wanna drink with your old pal, Lars?”

Jason grinds out a sigh. The drummer is sending him the gooiest doe eyes he can manage and he’d be lying if he said it _didn’t_ work.

“Alright, Ulrich, how _ever_ can I curry your favour?”  
  
Lars cackles as he lowers his ass back onto the stool and pops the cap on the mystery bottle. It gurgles lazily as he pours Jason his first shot and that’s when the smell hits him— _Maple Syrup._

“Alright, big boy,” Lars slides the glass over to him. “You wanna earn your right to drink with us? Thirty days. Thirty shots of syrup.”

Jason's expression goes wide-eyed and incredulous. _You've gotta be shitting me._

“That’s…the whole fuckin’ _bottle,_ man.”  
  
A chorus of hoots erupts from Metal Church behind him, fists drumming on the bar and all.  
The drummer hops off his stool and takes two steps in, nesting himself snug between his bandmate’s open thighs as he fixes him with a heavy-lidded stare. The syrup bottle is thrust into the bassist’s chest as Lars leans in and growls right into his ear, and Jason feels fingers pressing into his inner thigh just a bit too close to his groin for comfort.

_“Then drink up, Newkid.”_

Jason grips the neck of the syrup bottle; _fuck,_ why does Lars have to be like this? It’s not that Ulrich is being particularly mean-spirited—this is no different than Kirk’s wasabi back in Japan—it’s just that the drummer knows how to kickstart his engine and make him… _feel things_ , for a complete lack of better words. If the stiffness in his cock at the moment isn’t an indicator, then Jason has no clue otherwise. Admittedly, Lars is a good lay, and if Jason gets the chance to bag him again he’ll snatch it up in a heartbeat.  
  
With trembling hands, he lifts the bottle and is about to seal the deal when James intervenes, much to everyone’s surprise. The singer wedges himself between Jason and Lars and squares his shoulders, using his height to his advantage and pinning the Dane in place with a baleful glare.

“That’s enough, Lars.”  
“Aww,” Lars clicks his tongue. “Have you come to save your boyfriend, Het?”  
“No, this is just stupid and unnecessary.”  
“Is not, Het. He wants to prove himself. Let him.”

Before things can further escalate, Jason gets up from his seat and places a reassuring hand on James’s shoulder. He feels the tension in the singer’s muscles dissipate with the touch, and prays that the blond will give in to reason and not grind their drummer to a bloody pulp.

“No James. I got this.”

The singer turns his way and the look Jason is met with is nothing short of utmost concern; _Do you really wanna do this, Newkid?_ With this, however, the bassist is instilled with a newfound sense of audacity to stand up to Ulrich because _holy shit,_ James just stood up for _him._ If there wasn’t a fire in his belly before then there is now, and before Jason grips the bottle and tips it back, he offers James a resolute nod.

He’s met with an eruption of cheers and howls and someone rallies a countdown, tallying up the owed shots as he drains the syrup.

_One! Two! Three! Four! Five!_

It’s sweet—so, so sickeningly sweet, and Jason forces himself to keep going, no matter how much he wants to spit it all back up. He can’t let Lars win this round.

_Ten! Eleven! Twelve! Thirteen!_

From the corner of his eye he watches the colour drains from James’s face, a look of horror occupying his expression now.

_Twenty! Twenty-one! Twenty-Two!_

As Jason chugs the bottle, he nearly chokes when a hand sneaks up behind him and grips him by the ass, fingers digging in for a handful.

“That’s it, bass boy…keep chugging,” Lars’s tone is honey and viper’s venom and the bassist knows the last thing he should do is _stop_ drinking, and the drummer proceeds to punctuate his sentence with a squeeze. “Put that pretty mouth to use, why don’t you?”

_Twenty-seven! Twenty-eight! Twenty-nine!_

Unsure of whether Lars is trying to intimidate or take a pass at him—it could easily be both, Jason concludes—the newest member of Metallica is careful to stay in line and he finishes the syrup.

_Thirty!_

He’s met with a thundering chorus of praise, applause, congratulations.

Feeling sick to his stomach is an understatement, however, and within seconds he’s bolting to the bathroom. Bobby flies from his seat and runs after him, scrambling to make sure that the bassist survives the process in one piece. With the situation totally soured, the room is fast to diffuse as Metal Church resign themselves to drinking quietly at the bar, Kirk slips away with the girl he’s been chatting up since they arrived, and now James and Lars are left staring each other down.

Now that Newkid is out of the picture and turning himself inside out in the toilet, James seizes the moment to pin the drummer with a poisonous look. 

“Was that really fuckin’ necessary, man?”  
Lars gives a shrug and his nonchalance makes James crack his knuckles instinctively. He’s playing the cool and collected “no big deal” card and it just succeeds in pissing the guitarist off further.  
“He could have easily said ‘no’.”  
“You’re going too fuckin’ far with this shit, Lars. It was funny the first few weeks. Now it’s just boiling down to you being a dick.”  
“Well I thought it was funny. It’s funny how he’s so fuckin’ starstruck over us that you could ask him to lay down in the road and get hit by a fuckin’ bus, and he’d do it.”  
“Well I _didn’t_ think it was funny _._ And I _don’t.”  
_“C’mon, Het, lighten up.”  
“I’m fuckin’ serious, man. You’re taking advantage of him.”

The pause that prefaces the drummer’s response is a guillotine coming down; he lifts his eyes and the look he gives James is stone cold and the guitarist can’t even see down to their depths, they’re so clouded over and murky with ire.

“ _And you aren’t?”_

James excuses himself from the bar before his rage gets the best of him, but not before kicking over the stool and slamming the door on the way out.

* * *

Lars finally has James and James _alone.  
  
_Purse-lipped and quiet, James jiggles his leg nervously from his spot on the edge of the bed. Lars has been pacing through his comedown for the past fifteen minutes, the aftereffects of the stimulants in his system now taking toll, and he’s about one step shy of pacing a trench through the carpet. He’s shaking and sniveling and snotting all over himself and he hugs the hotel blanket in closer like a death shroud as the next wave of chills wrack his body.

James is all too familiar with this song and dance and it was far too easy for the bleary eyed drummer to turn on the waterworks and cry his way into the singer’s hotel room— _I’m not myself when I’m coming down, I’m not me when I’m going through this shit_ —and at that moment James’s anger towards his little friend has diffused into nothing but pity.

When Lars decides pacing isn’t enough, he takes a seat next to his bandmate and the pining look he sends his way has James wrapping his arms around him as if on cue. The guitarist cards rough fingers through his hair and the drummer takes it upon himself to curl up in James’s lap.

“You need to cut this shit out,” James gruffs, hoping his concerns don’t fall on deaf ears for once.  
“I know, I know. Just, the kids in Church had bumps before we headed out to the bar and I couldn’t help it.”  
“Yeah, well, it turns you into a dickhead.”  
_“Ej, tja…_ fuck, Het, I won’t argue with you, but…”  
“But?”

Lars takes a long pause—uncharacteristically long—and in the space between words the drummer wraps his arms around James and buries his face in his neck.

“It…It’s just not working out.”  
“What’s not working out.”  
“Jason.”

The implications in the way Lars says his name is like a stone dropping into James’s heart and he feels his jaw clench.

“Listen Lars, if this isn’t about you deciding to patch things up and stop treating Jase like a dick, then I’m not hearing it.”  
“No, Het. It’s about how he follows us around like a fucking simpering puppy all the goddamn time. It’s about how he’s more than happy to kiss our asses night and day like some kind of starstruck fanboy.”  
“So fuckin’ what?”  
“It’s fucking annoying. I can’t stand him for much longer.”  
“….Don’t. Go there.”  
“No James. I’m going there. We need to fire Jason.”

James all but throws the drummer off his lap as he bolts up from the bed. He wheels on Lars, glaring down daggers at him as his chest swells.

“You fucking _dickhead,_ fire him? You were the first one to insist we audition him!”  
“That’s not relevant!”  
“Of course it’s fucking relevant! You fucking _hired_ him, Lars! _You_ did!” James punctuates his sentence with a sharp poke to the drummer’s collarbone. “He was ultimately _your_ choice, and now you wanna can him?”  
“Yes.”

It’s James turn to pace the room now. He runs his fingers through matted blond waves, his nostrils flare as he heaves out breath after laboured breath, and when he wheels on Lars the Dane can see fire in his eyes.

“You fucking _cunt,”_ his tone is accusatory, verging on incredulous. “All of this shit just to have him fucking sacked? Do you even feel _bad_ about it, Ulrich?”  
  
Lars is silent, opting instead to swallow down a nervous gulp.

“Where’s your answer now, huh? You always have so much to fucking say. You obviously have a tonne of shit to talk about Jason, so just spit it the fuck out already.”  
“He’s causing too many waves.”  
“Oh, is that it? Is someone upset because they’re no longer the centre of attention?”  
“No, no, that’s not what I mean.”  
“Like fuck you don’t. Jason can’t be replaced. He’s good at what he does and he does it better than everyone else. We fucking auditioned him to make sure of this.”  
“He’s easily replaceable. Call our second choice, third choice. I can’t fucking handle him anymore.”  
“ _He’s easily replaceable?_ Fuck, man! He’s a human being, not a bass playing machine. Treat him with some fucking respect for a change. He fucking _worships_ you.”  
“Godfucking _dammit,_ James, will you just fucking _listen_ to me? That’s not it, at all.”  
“Then what _is_ it, Lars?”

The drummer freezes in place. Even after all of these years, Hetfield’s glare boring right into him is still enough to pin him in place like a needle through a moth on a spreading board. His words falter and he’s left cowering on the bed, wringing his hands in frustration as he attempts to find his voice.

James finds his answer in Lars’s silence and he turns on a heel towards the door. He’s done with the conversation.

“Take the room for the night. I’m sleepin’ outside.”

* * *

He finds Jason nodding off in the hotel’s hallway, his back to the wall next to the door that’s _supposed_ to be his room and clutching a bottle of Jack Daniel’s to his chest like his life depends on it. The bassist is awakened by the guitarist’s heavy footsteps and when he blinks the sleep from his eyes and sees the form of James heading his way, his face lights up and he cracks a weak but genuine smile.

“The fuck are you doing out here, Newkid? Who the fuck is making you sleep in the hall?”

James is already being pushed to his limits—first Lars, now _this?_ Kirk is a fucking dead man.  
He’s reaching for the doorknob when a hand grabs him by the wrist and guides it away.

“No,” Jason states, calm but firm in his tone. “You don’t wanna go in there. Kirk’s getting his dick wet.”  
  
The anger in James’s face quickly dissolves into something else—what’s replacing it, Jason can’t quite tell—but with a gentle pull on the singer’s hand, Jason coaxes him into taking a seat next to him and offers the Jack. Their shoulders bump as the singer snatches it up and takes a pull of whiskey strong enough to kill a horse, then lets out a heavy sigh when he stops to catch his breath and let the burn of the booze kill off any gripes that may still be lingering on his tongue. He doesn’t want to pile any more shit on Jason’s shoulders and resigns to quiet passivity as they pass the bottle between them.

“Everything alright?” the bassist starts, noticing the wear in James’s face. “You look like hell.”  
“I should really be the one asking you that, Jase. Lars almost fuckin’ killed you with that maple syrup shit.”  
“Eh, whatever. I’ve had worse done to me. Far worse, like when—”  
  
He’s cut off when he feels fingers intertwine with his and then there’s a hand squeezing, grounding him and keeping him from going any further.  
  
“Fuck, man,” James manages, every syllable shaking and ridden with guilt, “You don’t gotta remind me.”  
“Sorry.”  
“It’s fine, man. Just…it’s wrong. All of this.”  
“What do you mean, Het?”  
“The way we treat you. It’s wrong.”  
  
Jason tilts his head, trying to piece together the evening’s prior events and how they all fit into this conversation he’s having now. It's obvious that Hetfield is far more upset about the maple syrup than Jason ever was, but his frustrations are valid and the bassist just continues to listen.

“Like, I tried to verbalise it yesterday over lunch but just couldn’t find the right words. I still feel like I’m grasping at straws, still feel like I’m trying to find the right way to express what I’m feeling.”  
“It’s cool, Het. I’m getting used to Lars and his shenanigans. It’s not so bad after you learn what makes him tick, really.”  
“I know, but still. I feel like I owe you something.”  
  
_Like saying “sorry”, perhaps?_ Jason can only hope to himself. But it’s a healing process and like all processes, healing takes time. For now, Jason can only wait. _It’ll come eventually_ is his quiet assurance and he decides to let the conversation fizzle out on its own accord.

James takes one more pull from the Jack and then passes it back. They share a brief moment of silence (although they’re trying their hardest to not pay the sounds coming from the other side of the door any mind), and while James is still waiting for his blood pressure to drop, the feeling of Jason’s thumb now stroking the back of his hand is strangely soothing.

“James?” the silence is eventually broken by Jason’s voice.  
“Yes?”  
“Can I kiss you?”  
“… _yes.”_  
  
And so he does. 

He turns, leans in, plants a soft little kiss on James’s lips, and waits for the singer’s reaction. There’s no apprehension, no reluctance, no hesitations whatsoever as his bandmate reciprocates, and they exchange several more before Jason brings a hand up to brush at James’s cheek with a thumb. They’re both too exhausted and drunk to keep up the pace, but before the decide they’ve had their fill, Jason presses his forehead to James’s and stays there.

“Thanks for sticking up for me earlier, Het.”  
“…Yeah, no problem.”  
“It means a lot to me, really.”  
  
James doesn’t respond, but it doesn’t stop Jason from hearing the sharp hitch in his breath as he chokes down air. Deciding it best they call it a night, he peels himself from James and curls up on the floor with his head in his bandmate’s lap. He may as well get comfy on the floor because there’s no use waiting around for Kirk to finish up, and if James is out here in the hall with him then that can only mean that he’s either escaping Lars—or the drummer has given him the boot. However, he’s met with no qualms from the singer and there’s fingers carding through his hair now. Try as he might to fight off the sleep, black is starting to seep into the corners of his vision as the world goes numb. James’s touch is just too warm and welcome.

The last time they were in this situation—over a week ago, back on the bus, in his bunk—there was so much pain and hurt oozing from every pore, but this time is different. Slowly but surely, there’s a hole that’s being patched up, and Jason is resolute in seeing it mended. It goes without saying that even though the healing has started, James will absolutely be left marred with scar tissue and some parts may never heal—but it’s an outcome Jason is willing to accept, no matter how lengthy or difficult of a process. He’s decided that he’s in this for the long haul and there’s no way in hell he’ll give up on James, because James would never give up on him.

Before he drifts off to sleep, he manages two final words:  
“Night, James.”

The response?  
“Night, Jason.”


	11. 12.9.1986

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't listened to all of Permanent Waves by Rush, [go put it on](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Juv5Ifs2fFY&list=PLXPYMcRIi2fGOpLgAdEI6HsM41Ic-hEYO). It's crucial to this chapter (and it's also just plain good).  
> Some Good news is that I've taken a week off work to decompress and keep creative (and also continue searching for a better job/preparing to move), so hopefully I'll find the motivation to work ahead a few chapters so that I can focus on getting my shit together in the later weeks (and also not pull some serious skin o' my teeth, at-the-absolute-last-minute uploads). I'm happy to say that this story will most likely be wrapped up in about 8 or 9 more chapters (maybe even less, depending on how much fat I decide to cut) and I have some BIG things planned.  
> Thank you everyone who has stuck around with me on this crazy fuckin' journey--it means the world.

**12/9/86 – Toronto, ON - Post show, Motel**

Playing in Toronto was great (except for the part where Jason fell on stage. Even then, it wasn't that bad).  
 _Being_ in Toronto? Not so great.

Post-show is all fun and games when they bust out the beer. And Weed. And Coke.  
Post-show isn’t so fun when they run out of substance and they’re all angrily rubbing their noses, eyes, itching for a fight because they feel like they’re walking on glass and _goddammit_ Vodka is the cure.

“Jase, will you be a pal and go grab the handle of Smirnoff from my road case? It’s back in my room.”  
  
Lars’s request is nothing short of sweet, ironically—as a matter of fact, the drummer has been practically kissing his ass all day for reasons unknown—and Jason can only conject that James might have something to do with it. That morning, after waking up crumpled together in the motel hallway, Hetfield dropped hints that he and Lars had gotten into some kind of fight prior to James’s self-exile from the room, and as Jason sifts through Lars’s stuff in search of the Vodka he can’t help but wonder if they had been fighting about _him._ Eventually his fingers find the cold glass of the handle and he fishes it from the case, turns on his heel, and trots back to the party room.

He decides to let this one-off slide because hey, he’s always the most sober at these throwdowns and whatever—Lars asked nicely.

"Cigarettes! Who’s got the fuckin’ cigarettes?”  
“Shit, man, I think we forgot 'em.”  
“Someone go get ‘em, then.”

Now it’s James’s turn to hit Jason with a request: “Could you go get the pack of Marlboro 100’s from my shit? They’re on the bus.”  
“Hell no, dude, it’s fuckin’ twelve degrees outside!” Jason immediately digs his heels into the ground. "I love you, man, but get them yourself."  
“Cold won’t matter if you’re shitfaced, Newkid! Take a shot and go get the smokes. _Please?_ ”  
  
The way that James punctuates the sentence with a slightly-too-suggestive lilt in his voice has Jason caving and doing what he’s told, but not before letting James pour what can be considered a wildly inaccurate shot-sized serving of Smirnoff into his mouth, straight from the bottle. Even though being consigned to the official errand boy of the band is annoying at worst, Jason laughs it off because hey, where there’s no harm, no foul, right? He begs Bobby for the key to the bus, who just hands it over with a roll of his eyes and an exasperated sigh.

He makes a mad dash across the parking lot—it’s fucking snowing, after all—and once he crams the key in the door and boards, he goes straight for James’s road case.

Saying it looks like a hurricane blew through his shit would be seriously downplaying how much of a clusterfuck the vocalist's corner of the bus exists in; everything has been thrown around haphazardly with no sense of structure or organisation whatsoever. From shoes to underwear to loose cables and magazines, anything that _can_ be crammed into his road case eventually _will_ , and Jason swears to himself when he accidentally upsets a smaller bag within the trunk and sends a stack of miscellaneous crap spilling across the floor. Wanting to be a good neighbour because they're sharing the space, after all, the bassist grabs the contents and starts throwing them back from where they came, until he curls his fingers around one particular object—a cassette.

He flips it over in his hands a few times, giving it a good once-over, and even though the cover has seen some serious sun damage and wear he can still loosely make out the letters on the spine.

_“Rush—Permanent Waves”_ is spelled out in faded letters and then, lightly penned in black sharpie with an undoubtedly delicate hand, are the letters “ _CB”._

_CB?  
  
_ Jason spends a moment trying to connect the dots—he’s seen these initials before. They exist on the inside of his road case given to him by the band, they exist on the back of James's records and tapes, the tags of Lars's shirts, the spine of Kirk's books. They float in and out of his life, from a neat scribbling across the back of the bass amp stack they use on stage to the spare toothbrush in the bus toilet that nobody has touched for weeks. They're everywhere and anywhere. They permeate everything, even down to the bottom of his coffee mug that lives on the bus, and when it clicks, the case slips from his hand and clatters to the floor.

_Oh._

It’s a hard pill to swallow—knowing that the band still has all of his stuff is a bullet through the chest. Jason can not, will not, and could not _ever_ grasp how unfathomably deep their grief runs. For every infraction they make against him, there’s always a deeper seated issue behind what drives them to do it. Every time they come down hard on him, they’re really just coming down harder on themselves to compensate for the emptiness they feel. It all circles back to how bad the three of them are at processing trauma and letting it run its course. Little mementos like these are all that James, Lars, and Kirk have left of him, and Jason can’t hold it against his bandmates. He really, truly can’t—because when Cliff died, he took pieces of them to the grave, too.

Something sinks a little deeper in Jason, too, because every one of these mementos is just a reminder that he's only here out of necessity. They don't have to hang on to these little things, these nuances of the halcyon days when they were young and didn't know any better, because now they have a new bassist and the killing machine has been put back together again. He came to them dropped from a parachute—a lifeline when they needed it most and with the perfect balance of skill, strength, and personality—and yet to those three, it doesn't matter. He could be made of fucking _diamonds_ and it still wouldn't matter, because it hasn't even been two months since they put their boy in the ground and the blister still exists. _He_ won't matter—at least not for a very long time.

He’s quick in piling the rest of James’s shit back into his road case and nearly forgets the cigarettes. On his way out, he snags his walkman and loops the headphones around his neck. The copy of _Permanent Waves_ is safely tucked away in the breast pocket of his jean jacket, button fastened just in case.

When he returns to the room, he’s greeted with yet another barrage of disrespect—this time from Metal Church, freshly out of beers. Of course, Lars and Kirk have joined in, too spurred on by Vodka and blow to err on the side of good judgement. James, however, is atypically silent, especially given how drunk he currently is. Get a bottle of Smirnoff in the frontman's hands and it's guaranteed his mouth will be talking big by the time it's half-empty, but that doesn't seem to be the case. Jason slaps the cigarettes into the blond's hand and sends him a rough-hewn stare, his way of quietly asking him _"Are you really gonna let these chuckleheads push me around again?"._ The vocalist returns a sheepish look and goes back to nursing his Vodka in the corner, dismissive of it all. 

“Get your ass out there and get us some beers, Newkid!”  
“Yeah, dick! This is what happens when you fall on stage! We saw what happened during your set”  
“Move your ass!”  
“Out, Beer Boy! Out!”

Jason is trying to hold it together as he’s relegated back to being the band beer-runner and _for fuck’s sake_ , he thought this hazing business was all done and over with. He turns just in time for the crumpled can of Molson to bounce off the back of his head and when he wheels back around to belt whoever threw it in the face, they’re all clutching their sides and laughing, laughing, laughing.  
  
He scrunches his face up in disdain; fucking _really_? They’ve all been having a good night and now they decide to pull this juvenile shit again? Jason sighs to himself; he thought this shit would’ve stopped after the first few weeks, but boy, is he wrong. To add insult to injury, James still remains tight-lipped and silent from across the room and when the bassist attempts to make eye contact, the blond just shies away.

“C’mon Newkid, Beer!”  
“Yeah, we’re thirsty!!!”  
  
Everyone starts up a hearty chorus of _Beer! Beer! Beer!_ with additional percussion provided by Lars’s fists on the table, and Jason can’t help but offer anything more than an eyeroll back because he’s _so done_ with their shit.

“Fine. _Fine._ I’ll get your fuckin’ beer,” He snaps, hiking his jean jacket higher up over his shoulders. He’s reaching for the doorknob when someone snags him by the wrist and stops him in place.  
“No Jase, you stay,” Bobby’s voice cuts over the chorus of _Beer!_ and there’s an apologetic look on his face. “I’ll go get it.”  
“Say we meet in the middle and both go?” Jason offers and he signals with his eyes in the direction of the drunken musicians behind him. “I need to get outta here before I kill someone.”  
“Can’t have any more fatalities, I guess,” Bobby compromises and that’s their cue to leave.

They have no choice but to walk to the liquor store, which really doesn’t pose a problem as it’s just down the street from the motel. What does suck, however, is that it’s twelve degrees outside, snowing, and the only protection Jason has against the elements is denim. His breath is visibly condensing in the night air and he can see Bobby shudder as they crunch through the snow-lined streets. Little garlands of Christmas lights trim the fences and signposts, washing them in a warm glow, and if it weren’t for the current circumstances Jason would dare to feel even a little excitement for the upcoming Holidays.

“ _Fuck_ it’s cold out here,” he gripes to himself as if it’ll somehow make him warmer, folding his arms across his chest and huddling deeper into his jacket. Despite the decent buzz he has going, it’s not numbing the feeling of a million cold teeth digging into him and he tries to distract himself with thoughts of warmer things: the sweltering Phoenix sun…a hot meal…the inside of the liquor store…

_James’s arms._

_Fuck_.

He can’t help it; he’s ended up there more than once and it’s not a bad place to be, either. For fuck’s sake, James’s dick has been in every hole of his save for his ass and Jason can’t keep the thoughts from flitting around in his head like annoying little flies. For the last several weeks, the lanky blond has been the only person on his mind and just being within arm’s reach of him makes Jason weak in the knees, dry of mouth, and swelteringly uncomfortable in his cock. He feels like a horny teenager all over again and he hates it.

He’s more than appreciative for the warmth of the liquor store when they finally get themselves inside and both he and Bobby make a beeline to the booze in the back.

“God…I can’t believe we’re doing this for them. Lazy asses,” Jason grumbles, mostly to himself, but Bobby catches it and can’t help but chuckle.  
“Y’know how we can snub ‘em, though?”  
“Buy the shittiest beer possible?”  
“What’s worse than Hamm’s, Jase?”  
“PBR?”  
“Definitely PBR.”

Jason and Bobby share a laugh as they lock in their decision. They haul a couple thirty-racks of Pabst up to the checkout and pay, but not before Jason is ousted as _that new guy from Metallica!_ by the clerk and wrangled into signing the back of a receipt for him.

On the walk back he can’t help but think that opening himself up to the band and, more specifically, _James_ , has all just been a huge fluke on his behalf.

He could have sworn there was something special there—something precious that he had tried so hard to cultivate between himself and the vocalist, but the realisation itself feels like raking his fingers through dirt, barren and dry, waiting for something to grow.

What can be there, however, is a two inch thick piece of wood with locks and hinges and Jason just wants to drop the racks off as fast as possible and get the hell back to his motel room. Luckily, Bobby derails their journey to make a pit-stop at his own room to pick up more “supplies” for Lars and Kirk. Deciding he’d rather not stand around awkwardly in the hall at two in the morning while their manager digs through his luggage for blow, Jason steps inside. The moment that Bobby returns, attempting to cram a huge balloon of white powder into his pocket with one hand, is the moment when Jason decides that it’s definitely for the best if he opts to go back to his bed and get some sleep instead of trying to throw down with a bunch of coke fueled maniacs.

“You comin’ back to party?” Bobby’s question comes purely out of courtesy when their eyes meet; he knows the answer Jason will give him and the bassist just affirms it with a shake of his head, his brown mop of curls bobbing with the motion.

“Nah, I’m done for the night.”  
“For sure?”  
“Yeah, I’ve had enough of them to last the rest of the year. I’m gonna get some shut-eye.”

The look Bobby gives Jason is pained, but he understands. It’s been a rough adjustment for Jason, for everyone, and the rest of Metallica has already given him enough shit that their tour manager isn’t going to pile up any more than is necessary.

“That’s probably the saner thing to do, anyways.”  
“For sure,” Jason sets down the rack of beer and starts for the door.  
“Call me if you need anything, kid.”  
“Bobby…” He stalls, lingering in the threshold between the hall and the motel room. There’s just a glint of apprehension in his face as he floats there in the doorway, fidgeting nervously with the hem of his jacket.  
“…Can I ask you a question?”  
“Fire away.”  
“…Did the guys ever treat Cliff like this?”

Jason finds his answer in the pause that prefaces their tour manager’s response.  
It hurts, but he doesn’t let it show.

“They’re just going through a lot, alright? You’re the best thing that could have happened to them. Now go, sleep. I’ll deliver the beer. Just…don’t take it too personally, okay?”  
“Trying not to. It’s not like I can get them to stop,” Jason’s tone is pointed.  
“Have you tried asking?”  
“Have _you_?”

The look Bobby gives him in place of a response is one of someone whose nerves have been grated on all evening and just doesn’t have the gas to deal with attitude anymore. He’s exhausted—they all are—but Bobby is rightfully so. He’s the one who has to babysit these idiots and make sure they don’t hurt themselves, after all.

“Not my circus; not my monkeys,” Bobby snips, deciding he’s finished with the conversation and he hoists up Jason’s rack of beer with his free hand. Jason decides he’s done, too, and turns on his heel to head out the door. On the way back to his room, hands crammed in jean jacket pockets and chewing the inside of his cheek, he wonders if he really is just taking all of this way too personally.

He knows it was a bad idea getting attached to James or Lars or Kirk, anyways. He’s not even technically in the band, not an actual member; they just _hired_ him to fill in, after all. He could be let go at any time, for any reason. And yet…he knows that there’s a point they’re capable of reaching where he’ll become more than just a stand-in, too, but he can’t see that happening any time soon—nor is it visible on the horizon. He brings a hand up to his chest to pat at the cassette still tucked away in his pocket and make sure it's still there; the initials _"CB"_ flash in his mind's eye momentarily. It might take months, hell— _years_ —for them to finally accept him as one of their own, and he’s ready to slog it out until then, but for now…everything just _hurts._

He throws himself down on his bed once he’s back in his room and fishes the cassette— _Cliff's old cassette_ —from his pocket, crams it into the walkman, and slips the headphones over his ears. Admittedly, it’s been more than a few years since he listened to the album, but when he hears the opening lick of _The Spirit of the Radio_ it hits him with a headrush stronger than anything else he’s taken that evening.

The nostalgia is a more than welcome change of pace as he loses himself in the rest of the song, and then becomes completely engulfed in the remainder of the A-side. He's comfy, stretched out on his back on the bed, and then suddenly it’s time to flip the tape. When the B-side is in place and he hits play, however, something comes over him after _Entre Nous_ finishes up. He can't put his finger on why the first few notes of the next song have him reaching for the leaflet in the case; they just do. He scrambles up to a sitting position, legs crossed, shoulders hunched forwards as he pulls the paper out of the plastic shell. Maybe it’s just that he never particularly paid attention to the B-side of the album past the single (as much as he hates to admit it, because he claims to be an enormous _Rush_ fan), but there’s something about the acoustic intro that has him wishing he had done so in the past.

The lyrics are _so_ typically Rush— _Who’s come to slay the dragon? Come to watch him fall?_ —and he can’t help but crack a smile as he thumbs through the leaflet, eyes following along with Geddy Lee’s voice. There’s a point, however, where the lyrics stop being so fantastical and start needling him in a sore spot, because as Geddy continues to pour velvet-lined words into his ears, the situation described feels oddly…. _familiar_ —even if it is simply confined within the parametres of a song.

_All there really is,  
The two of us._

_And we both know why we’ve come along.  
Nothing to explain;  
It’s a part of us,  
To be found within a song._

Nope. Not familiar at all. He's gotta be living vicariously through these lyrics or something.

_What happened to our innocence,_   
_Did it go out of style?_   
_Along with our naivete?_   
_No longer a child._

Still, he keeps listening, and that’s when it finally clicks that the sudden unfamiliarity isn’t because he doesn’t know the lyrics— _he does_. He lost track of when he stopped following along in the booklet and began reciting from memory because he _does_ indeed remember the words: the real reason they seem so alien is because he’s just seeing them through different lenses now.

_Different eyes see different things  
Different hearts beat on different strings.  
But there are times, for you and me,  
_ _When such things agree._

It takes him a moment to realise there’s tears hitting the paper. Quietly, he presses the stop button, takes the cassette from the walkman, and slips it back into its case along with the leaflet.

The parallels are just too overwhelming; When did he become so attached?

He and James are about as opposite of the poles as they can get: where Jason is chatty and laid-back, James is silent and stalwart. Where Jason can bend and bow, James is unmoving—stubborn, even. Jason thrives on contact and touch and chooses to see everyone as someone to befriend; when the same is extended to James, he pulls back, cautious and wary of ulterior motives.

He and James may not always see eye to eye, but when they actually do it’s like the stars fucking align and nothing can come between them. _Nothing._  
Not tour managers walking in on them, not Lars being a prick, not beer cans, nor grieving or insecurity or jealousy, and those moments are precious—so unbelievably fucking _precious_ to Jason—and he’s going to chase this ephemeral dream until somebody physically stops him or until he breaks down.  
  
He’s been trying his damnedest to cut out the love that's grown for his bandmate in his chest like a thicket of brambles, but he just can’t stop the emotions as they surge and swell within him, sweep him about in their throes like a tide, wash him away in the undertow.

Up until now, his head may have very well been able to perform the mental gymnastics needed to stay one step ahead of every feeling he’s tiptoed around like landmines, but his heart has been keeping score, each and every time.  
Now, it’s clear to him that maybe, just _maybe_ what he perceives as the most rational and reasonable course of action may not necessarily be right for how he wants to live his life. Something inside of him needs to be purged before it festers like a sore and he’s witnessed all too many times how infatuation can suddenly spiral into resentment, and he has to be clear with himself: He’s going to make things _right_.

It’s like feeling around in the dark, grasping for something, _anything,_ before a light is thrown and the world is suddenly illuminated: he did the digging, found his answers, and knows _why_ he must do this. Now it’s just figuring out the _when_ and the _how._

_Okay. Okay, it’s time to come clean,_ he reassures himself. _Tomorrow_. Tomorrow night, after the show, is when he’ll square things up with James. He’ll tell him about Lars, he’ll tell him about what’s been happening, and he’ll tell him about how he feels—and he’s fucking _terrified_ —but it’s gotta be done. At least, that’s what he’s taken to rationalising everything with. He decides within himself that it’s going to be okay—that once he talks things out with James, that it’ll be alright, because it’s always panned out in the end—and he’s going to smooth things out with Lars. Just…one step at a time. One step at a time.

He’s still understandably wounded from the way he was treated earlier and even more so from James failing to stick up for him, however, and it’s going to take a few hours (if not the rest of the night) for him to nurse his injured feelings back to one-hundred percent. He prides himself in having thick skin and being able to take a beating—but this kind of letdown just fucking _stings_.

Something tells him he shouldn’t bother setting the alarm on the clock; if routine has proved itself time and again, then someone will most likely be in at five in the morning to throw his shit around the room or bang a cymbal in his ear. He silently prays against it, but he knows in the back of his mind that there’s still a good chance that it could still happen. It may not be James this time around and _hell_ , it may not even be Lars at this point—but as much as he’d like to believe that they’re past this kind of behaviour, his boys have a bad habit of ousting themselves to be total idiots at times. They’re constantly taking one step forwards and two steps back, and while there’s progress being made, it’s the small things such as what transpired earlier that still has Jason absconding back to the safety of his hotel room, or the bus, or the comfort that comes in being alone and away from everyone else.

Wake-up call or not, he’ll be up either way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also:  
> [ Just in case anyone wants to see Jason fall on stage](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ESicEzUtqk)  
> Timestamp is 13:42  
> (You're welcome)


	12. 12.10.1986 - Early AM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jason just can't stop sticking his dick where it doesn't belong, huh? Drugs are bad, kids.  
> Shit is so close--SO CLOSE--to hitting the fan that I almost posted two chapters today, but decided against it in the true spirit of the slowburn fic. Next week will be getting explosively spicy, however, so prepare yourselves. For now, have a different kind of spice (the kind that involves Jason making idiot choices).

**12/10/86 – Sudbury, ON – Early AM, Motel**

Everything just _hurts_.

His eyes, his face, his head, his neck— _fuck_ , does his neck hurt like hell. Why he ever thought that the best way to end a bass solo was by smashing his head against his instrument, he’ll never know—and instead of waking up to the alarm from the hotel clock blasting in his ear (that he could’ve sworn he _didn’t_ set) like any sane individual, Jason just groans, smothers his face with the pillow and tries to shut it out. Last night’s show (and subsequent binge) packed one hell of a wallop and it almost has Jason considering dialing back the energy for the next performance. _Almost._

Surprisingly enough, there are no 5AM wake-up calls, nobody busting down his door to drag him out of bed, no seasoned bandmates there to ruin his morning under the guise of “building character” which means one thing and one thing alone—everyone has gotta be _stupid_ hungover. He sure as hell is and he had had only half the beer and substances that everyone else partook in, so, as he helplessly gropes for the snooze button on the stand next to him, he entertains the thought of James and Lars nursing their pounding headaches and stiff backs and actually being fucking quiet and out of his goddamn face for a change.

That all changes after Jason rolls over, more than ready to get fifteen more minutes of sleep, only to be greeted by three light raps at the door. Knowing it’s Bobby—because who else would be up at 8:30AM aside from the walking dead (and maybe one might-as-well-be-dead bassist), Jason reluctantly sits up, swings his legs over the bed, and half-assedly attempts to pull on some jeans so he’s at least presentable. The last time Bobby caught him with his pants off was…mildly upsetting, to say the least.

He can’t help but hitch a confused eyebrow, however, when he swings the door open to find that it is in fact _not_ Bobby, but a particular Danish drummer. He’s wearing his leather jacket and shades already and Jason can only take shots in the dark as to why, but doesn’t bother saying anything, instead opting to invite him in. It would be stupid for Jason to do otherwise, since Lars’s current position as the _de facto_ leader of the band (with the management skills to prove it, too) may as well have made him Bobby knocking at the door, after all.

The drummer hikes his shades up on his head when he enters, glancing around at the all-too-neat hotel room that had yet to receive the routine Metallica thrashing. Just from a quick once-over, Jason can see the angry purple circles that ring his eyes along with a patch of reddened skin on the tip of his nose, rubbed raw from anxious fingers. When Lars turns to face him, he has the most vacant and hollow look in his eyes, so much that the bassist almost feels _bad_ for him because he looks like something chewed him up and shit him out.

“Y’all look like shit,” comes Jason’s blunt remark as he closes and locks the door, makes his way back over to the bed, and takes a seat on the edge, still rubbing sleep from his eyes with the back of a fist.  
“It happens,” Lars can only offer a weak shrug and Jason is quick to pick up that his bandmate isn’t in his room to make small-talk. The Dane draws his mouth into a fragile line and gives a worried glance around the room before locking eyes with Jason once again. He takes notice of how the younger man is wringing his hands together, leg bouncing frantically, chewing on his lip and, _ahh, typical.  
_  
“Say, uhh…I’m not sure how keen you are on this kinda stuff but, uh, you wouldn’t happen to have any, uhh….” He pauses as if to make sure the walls aren’t listening. When he’s reassured by nothing but silence, he brings a finger up to his face and taps the end of his nose. “… _Y’know_.”  
“Nah man, I don’t buy that shit.”  
“ _For Helvede_.”  
“Bless you.”  
“Oh fuck off, never mind. You have any weed?”  
“Smoked it all.”  
“Quaaludes?”  
“What do I look like, a forty-year-old white woman?”  
“Vicodin?”  
“… _Huh?”_

Now it’s Lars’s turn to raise an eyebrow at Jason. Instead of prodding the bassist for further answers like he would’ve, however, he drops his shades back down and hurriedly heads to the door.

“I’ll…be back. Don’t go anywhere, Newkid.”  
“Yes, sir.”  
“ _Fuck’s sake,”_ the drummer snips, mostly to himself, before he slips out of the room.

Jason is unsure of just _what the fuck_ conspired between the two of them but he’s not about to defy Lars’s orders. He’s got a good idea, however, seeing as the younger man practically rattled off a junkie's shopping list, so Jason decides to take it easy and kick it until Lars comes back with…whatever the hell Lars is planning on coming back with. Admittedly, while Jason has been around the block a few times and seen his fair share of debauchery, it always seemed that Lars (and often Kirk) were always scoring exciting new drugs out of thin air. That just comes with the rockstar territory, he can only assume. That, and Lars must really be desperate to put something in his nose, because Jason’s had enough of witnessing the drummer’s nasty comedowns and he really can’t blame him.

It takes all but ten minutes before there’s another weak tapping at the door and he lets the drummer back through. Lars seats himself at the single chair next to Jason’s bed and soon he’s crushing a couple of lemon yellow pills over the nightstand.  
  
“That was fast.”  
“Yeah, those brats in Metal Church were holding out so I instilled the fear of God in them,” Lars says over the rhythmic _tap-tap-tap_ of his credit card.  
“Because you’re such a God-fearing individual yourself.”  
“By _God_ I mean _Me_. I just demanded they pay their supporting act dues, lest we tack the next room service bill on them.”  
“Fuck, man, I’d kiss you if you actually made someone else foot the fucking bill for a change,” Jason jokes and it might be in bad taste, considering all that’s happened between them up until now, but Lars only fixes him with a pointed look from over the three thin rails of powder cut neatly in front of him.

“Are you gonna take the fuckin’ drugs with me or not, Newdick?”

Jason pauses momentarily—he has a rudimentary grasp on what Lars just cut up in front of him, although he’s not entirely sure if Vicodin is a painkiller—but the sudden sharp ache in his neck persuades him that yeah, maybe he should take the drugs. He’s out of weed, anyways.

He scoots across the bed to join him at the table and the drummer is the first to lean in and rail a line of instant pain-be-gone.

“So…we’re putting that shit up our nose?”  
“Unless you wanna shove it up your ass, then yeah.”  
“Nose is good, thanks.”

Jason leans in to hit the second rail and he flinches because his first instinct is to sneeze it out— _holy shit,_ does it burn. Sure, he’s done coke before at parties here and there when he was back in Phoenix, but it was _nothing_ like this Vicodin shit. Lars is quick to snort the last rail and the drummer just huffs out a laugh when he sees Jason attempting to rub the tip of his nose off with a back of a hand.

“Yeah, it takes some getting used to; I’m not too keen on it myself.”

Jason stops trying to grind his nose off to send Lars a pointed look; _really?_

“Then why the _fuck_ are we doing it, man?”  
“Because I’m hungover as fuck and we have a show to play tonight.”  
“Still.”  
“Just give it five minutes—it’ll pick you up in no time, I promise.”  
“I’ll take your word for it.”

And so he gives him five minutes.  
Silence gathers, seeping from the corners of the room, from between stiff necks and aching bones, and it doesn’t take long for a warmth to envelope Jason. He’s felt this way before—it’s not unlike that of smoking a joint or some hash, just _stronger._ Much, much stronger.

“Hey," Lars eventually breaks the silence. He turns and the look he gives Jason is dubious at best: eyes half-lidded, eyebrows raised.  
“What?”  
“Remember that… _Incident_ we had backstage just a few nights ago?”  
“Uh, yeah. Why?”  
“…would you be adverse to doing that again?”

Jason thinks about it for a moment—or rather, he doesn’t, because he’s _so fucking high_ he wouldn’t be able to find his hand even if he held it out in front of his face. Euphoric doesn’t even start to describe it and suddenly this painkiller shit doesn’t sound like such a bad idea—especially since all of his neck pain is gone—and who knows if it’s the drugs talking, because suddenly fucking Lars _again_ doesn’t sound like such a bad idea, either.

And, within seconds, the two are entwined on the hotel bed, tearing into each other like starving dogs.

It’s no secret that Lars is a biter—there’s been too many times that James and Kirk have stumbled from a bathroom or hotel room with their jacket collars drawn high up on their shoulders, trying their best to hide the smattering of hickies the drummer is so notorious for—and now that Lars has the skin of Jason’s neck pinched between his teeth, the bassist is rapidly coming unglued. He writhes beneath his bandmate, digs his fingers into his waist as he grinds his hips up into him.

It doesn’t take long, however, for some curious thoughts to permeate the haze in Jason’s head and who knows if it’s the Vicodin conjuring up these images, but suddenly Jason isn’t preoccupied with Lars anymore: He’s too busy imagining _James_ in his place. He tries to swat them away—even though Lars has been a dick to him, he deserves a little more respect than to just be a piece of ass that Jason can channel his fantasies through—but they just keep coming back to bite him. As Lars continues working on his neck and collarbone, Jason can’t help but run his fingers through the drummer’s tea-coloured waves and imagine he’s snagging them on golden curls instead. It’s wrong, _so fucking wrong_ , but he can’t help it.

Lars’s touch soon melts into James’s. It’s not the drummer Jason is pinned under, but the guitarist. It’s not Ulrich biting into his neck, but Hetfield, and Jason can’t stop the moan that bubbles out before it’s far too late:

“ _Fuck, James, keep going.”_

Lars stops.

“… _James_?”

Jason feels his blood congeal in his veins as everything goes terrifyingly silent.

_Shit._

“Lars, I’m— _fuck,_ look man, I’m so sorry.”

The drummer stiffens his posture, still straddling Jason. The bassist can see something flash in his eyes for just a second, some lingering remnant of maybe disappointment, maybe anger, maybe repulsion, but before he gives Jason enough time to properly label it he simply tosses his head back and _laughs_. If Jason wasn’t confused enough, he’s fucking _perplexed_ now. This is it. He broke Lars.

“We—we can stop now if you want—”  
  
Unexpectedly, he’s silenced with a finger pressing up against his lips.

“You’re _fine_ , Jase,” the drummer laughs. “This isn’t anything new. We _all_ wanna dick down on James. It’s just common knowledge. I won’t hold it against you and what’s said in this room stays in this room.”  
“Are…you sure?”  
“Absolutely.”

The bassist can’t believe it—is Lars really going to let him off the hook, just like that? It’s difficult to process, to say the least, especially since James has been the sole catalyst behind the drummer’s ire towards him. Calling out his name while they’re getting frisky is _not_ racking up brownie points with Ulrich—or at least it _shouldn’t_ , if experience has taught Jason anything and there’s no way this can be completely inconsequential. Something in his gut tells him to be wary, that it’s very plausible the drummer could tuck this infraction into his back pocket for later, but the throbbing ache of his all-too-stiff cock has him needing to finish the job.

“Well?” Lars begs with his eyes, rolling his hips into Jason’s and giving him the friction that he needs so badly. It’s like he can read his mind. “Are we gonna continue?”  
  
Jason, too dry in the mouth to speak, answers with a hasty nod and clamps his hands back down on the drummer’s hips, pulling him in for their lips to meet. As they press into each other, desperate and hungry for the touch they crave so badly, Lars breaks for air to interrupt with a surprising statement.

“I feel like I need to let you know something, Newkid.”

Jason opts to remain silent but lifts his gaze to meet his bandmate’s, a quiet acknowledgement and his way of letting Lars know has the green light to continue.

“It’s about the way we’ve been treating you and shit. You probably think that we hate you, huh?”  
“Well…” Jason skirts around the truth, unsure of whether this is just some underhanded tactic that’ll be used to burn him. “You guys haven’t been exactly nice, to put it loosely…”  
“Well, just to clear things up, I don’t hate you at all,” There’s a razor-fine edge to Lars’s voice and it sets Jason on fire, “As a matter of fact, I think you’re the biggest thing since powdered milk.”  
“Don’t quote _Budgie_ lyrics at me,” Jason interjects with a noise somewhere between a scoff and a laugh as he slips the drummer’s shirt over his head.  
“I’ll quote whatever the hell I want at ya, Newkid,” Lars explains as he successfully undoes his belt and shimmies out of his jeans. Once the pants are off, he leans forwards and pins Jason to the bed by the wrists. “And when the time came to review the audition tapes and make a decision, you bet your fuckin’ ass I was the first to put my feather in your hat.”

This catches Jason off guard; blue eyes widen just a fraction enough for Lars to notice and the drummer smirks before sinking down and fumbling with the findings on his pants. The bassist bolts up on his elbows, eyes locked on the younger man as he frees his cock from his boxer-briefs, who can only respond with a roll of his eyes as Jason needles him with a thousand questions— _What? You pitched for me first? Are you shitting me? Why? You’re the reason I’m here?—_ and so on and so on. The drummer only scoffs and continues to curl his fingers around his bandmate’s shaft.

“God, _Lad være_ , you nosy little prick. When I say I absolutely went up to bat for you harder than James ever did, I’m not just talking out my ass, y’know. Now leave it be, will ya?”

Sometimes it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie, and now is no exception—learning this is like having the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders and Jason is just glad that he has one less thing to worry about now. As it turns out, Lars _doesn’t_ hate him—and _thank fucking god_ , because he’s a much better ally than enemy. Jason would know this after having seen both sides of the fence.

So he lets the drummer have his way with him in the moment—the younger man is quick to get his mouth to work on Jason’s already aching cock, sucking and slicking him up. His technique is sloppier compared to that night in the dressing room, most likely due to the painkillers and the pleasant numbness they’ve brought upon both men, but in no way is it inhibiting his ability to give good head—if anything, it’s just heightening the sensations, and Jason taps him on the shoulder when he feels he’s too close to the edge. Seeing the glassed over and needy look in the bassist’s eyes, Lars pulls his mouth off his shaft with a wet pop and signals that he’s ready for _more._

Jason doesn’t waste any time; he rolls his bandmate over onto his belly, pushes the heels of his palms into the drummer’s back, and lines himself up with his ass. It takes just a quick thrust before they’re connected at the hips and it’s all going through the motions from there. The fucking is good— _too_ good, almost—augmented by the Vicodin and the sheer ridiculousness of it all because Jason just can’t turn down a good piece of ass, at least not when he’s this desperate to fuck. _Fucking libido._ But he doesn’t care and as he ploughs into the drummer, he sees his little fists curling into the sheets and suddenly the thought is creeping back into his head that those could be _someone else’s fists_ if Jason is persistent enough. He bites down on the back of his hand when he cums because he doesn’t want James’s name spilling out again, even though his head floods with images of the vocalist as he empties his load into the wrong bandmate.

Too eager to distract himself from thoughts of a certain blond, Jason reaches an arm around to grip Lars by the shaft and finish him off. Having someone else’s cock in his hands is enough to drive away the intrusive images and once the drummer is spurting thick ropes over his fingers, he considers it mission accomplished. He rolls off of Lars, too spent to move but with just enough energy to turn his head and give one last wide grin to him.

“That wasn’t so bad now, was it?”  
“I’ve had worse,” the Dane chirps, chest still heaving, breath flaring in short bursts.  
“Worse than your lay calling out someone else’s name by mistake?”  
“Oh fuck off.”  
‘”Just did.”

The drummer administers Jason a playful sock to the arm before flopping onto his back and sprawling out on the sheets, not caring how much sweat and cum and fluids he’s been plastered with.

Jason still can’t believe he’s escaping this with his neck still intact (well, if one disregards the smattering of hickies he’s been tagged with, that is). He couldn’t have dodged a bullet any better and he silently thanks whatever cosmic forces out there blessed him with his rat-bastard luck. Things couldn’t have panned out any better—well, they could, realistically—but he’ll take the small wins as he achieves them, because while things aren’t _perfect,_ they could easily be worse. _Far_ worse.

Still, he completely and fully intends to have his heart-to-heart with James regarding everything that’s happened up until this moment. He’s made up his mind, he’s going to do it, and now that he seems to have finally found peace with Ulrich, the timing couldn’t be more right.

_Tonight_.  
Tonight, he’s coming clean to James.

Lars slides off the bed and begins throwing his clothes back on. His opts to pull his hair—far too tussled to be saved—back in a loose ponytail, but not before giving it one last toss over his shoulder and casting a sultry side-eye in Jason’s direction.

“Thanks for the fun, Newkid,” he chimes as he collects his wallet and keys from the table. “Gotta go, though. Got a tour manager to hunt down. Be good, okay?”  
“Nothing less for your, darling,” Jason laughs in his direction and the drummer joins him, all breathy and through the nose.  
“See you at bus call, Jase.”  
“Back atcha, Lars.”

The drummer turns and leaves.  
His smile is quick to dissolve into a dark-eyed glare as soon as his back is turned and the door is closed. _What an exciting discovery—_ and as he mulls it over and over again in his head he can’t help but decide that now is the time to pivot in a different direction.

Newkid is no longer a threat—this is clear enough. It’s finally registered in Lars’s brain that the bassist, while nosy and too fucking excited over just being able to _breathe_ the same air as him, only means well. He regrets ever expressing the prospect of firing the bassist because he really had no intention of following through with it—it was just something to bait Hetfield with, see if Lars could get him to bite back—and even though Jason can be too fucking smitten with the band for his own good, the last thing Lars wants to do is send him packing. They went through all of this trouble getting him on board and he's one _hell_ of a live musician. However, Jason’s fault lies within his newness: he may as well have a sign taped to his ass that says _kick me_ and it’s made it all the easier for not just Lars, but James, Kirk, and everyone else to unload their frustrations onto the newest kid on the Metallica block. Lars can’t help but smile to himself, however, because Jason's eagerness to live up to their expectations has him eating straight from the palm of the drummer's hand.

_James,_ however, is a different story.  
  
Het knows exactly what he’s doing—it’s obvious that the guitarist is beginning to drift, too caught up in the allure of the fresh-faced and explosive Newsted and Lars _knows_ just how easily infatuated James can become by raw energy. He’s seen this song and dance before. It draws him in like a moth to flame and Ulrich can’t help but be just a bit more than irked with how he likes to chase these fruitless endeavors. It’s a sour taste in the drummer’s mouth because this is exactly what happened with Dave—and look at where that got them. He’s constantly reminding his bandmate that Jason could very well just be a stand-in while they sort out their long-term bassist plans, that he can easily be a stepping stone on their much broader path because who knows if they’re going to have a Mustaine Part Two on their hands. Still, the guitarist continues to be completely dismissive.

It doesn’t even matter anymore that James and Jason are constantly one square away from boning each other—Lars overcame that insecurity a while ago. The drummer conquered that mountain when he bagged Jason on the floor of the dressing room and again just a few minutes ago, comfortable in the hotel bed, while simultaneously proving to himself that you can indeed keep a band glued together while still being able to fuck around with them. He and Kirk are constantly hopping in bed with each other, anyways, so it shouldn’t be a problem if James and Newkid need to screw every now and then. What it really boils down to now is how James is constantly stepping out of line, flagrantly disregarding Lars’s advice and guidance, and he’ll be damned if lets James’s cock jeopardise the future of Metallica because they came _so close_ to that in ’83.

As Lars trots down the hall and back to his room, he catches himself whistling the main chorus of _Master of Puppets_ and can’t help but find it fitting.  
  
He makes up his mind;  
Hetfield is a dead man walking.


	13. 12.10.1986 - Late PM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man. It's here. The moment everyone has been waiting for (okay, not _that_ moment, but this is just as good, I promise).  
> This hurt me to write and it'll probably hurt just as much for everyone to read. I've been putting the "slow" in "slow burn" for the last four chapters, and now it's time for some full-throttle burnin'.
> 
> Just an important heads up that this story might be put on a one or two week hiatus! This dude is moving in August (which is equally parts exciting and terrifying) and since I work full time, I only have the weekends to move my shit--which also coincide with the time I'd usually set aside to write. Next week's update is still on the books, but I'll be sure to let y'all know if chapters down the line are going to be put on hold. This wacky project of mine has managed to build up a following that I never thought I'd accomplish so letting everyone know I might have to take a brief pause is the least I can do, and thanks again everyone who's stuck with me on this journey. It means a lot to me!

**12/10/1986 – Sudbury – Late PM, Post-show - Bar**

As it turns out, Wednesdays are the perfect nights to go shooting pool after a show.

The bar that Metallica and Church scopes out is pleasantly empty when they stumble through its doors, already half-drunk from post-show shots, and the two groups are quick to stake out a pool table to occupy. There’s plenty of beers making their rounds because, hey, as of tonight, the Canada leg of the tour is half-over and everyone knows what that means:

_More drinking!_

Jason is still bristling with energy because that night’s set was an absolute _face-melter_ and as if he didn’t already have enough adrenaline shooting through his veins, Lars is suddenly taking him by the hand and coaxing him away from the pool table. With Kirk and a few of the boys from _Church_ in tow, the drummer sneaks them towards the back and down a hallway where he then corrals them all into a tiny little bathroom. One, two, three...Jason counts five heads all crammed together in the stall like sardines in a can. Lars accidentally clips him with an elbow without so much as a weak apology while he rummages through his pockets and it takes him just a moment to pull the bag of white from his jacket. Before Jason knows it, all of them are hitting bumps like it’s nobody’s business. He’s never been particular on powders—doesn’t care for the burn in his nose or the comedown—but figures that tonight is different, the coke is free, and hey—what the hell. Everyone’s here to have a good time, _right_?

Besides, he can absolutely use some powdered confidence to help get him through the conversation he’s about to have with James, anyways.

They all tumble out of the stall and head back to the billiards room where they’re greeted by the sight of James balanced over the pool table, cue in hand, weight thrown to one leg and lining up a shot. The view alone is enough to make Jason’s mouth goes dry as his eyes travel from the broad plane of the frontman’s shoulders down to the denim that hugs the curve of his ass just so _fucking good_ , but before the bassist can step up to the table and challenge him to a friendly match, Lars is already shoving past him, grinding a cube of chalk into the end of his cue.

“ _Hey Het!_ ” comes the smaller man’s bark right as James takes the shot and Jason can practically hear the scratch as it falls flat of the pocket. The guitarist turns on a dime to fix him with a stare and draws himself up when the drummer elbows his way past him, taking it upon himself to re-rack the balls for a fresh game.

“I’ll wipe the floor with you if you give me the chance.”  
“Like hell you will, Ulrich.”  
“Challenge accepted.”

Jason has seen that look in James’s eyes—sharp and gleaming—and as the guitarist wets his bottom lip with a tongue while he lines up his cue for the opening break, the bassist can’t help but feel completely taken with how perfect he looks bent over that pool table. It’s an understatement saying that Hetfield is intimidatingly hot—Now if he could just find a moment to pull James aside…he takes a noisy gulp of beer to help ease down the ball of nerves now in his throat.

The opening break is smooth and James sinks one in the pocket. Then another. And another. Danish curses drift over the Bon Jovi polluting the radio and Jason can’t help but smile inwardly as he watches Ulrich get crushed—it’s obvious that James has had more practise and every time Lars goes to make a shot, he either scratches or misses completely. If the crumpled expression the drummer now wears isn’t satisfactory enough, the resounding clink of another ball sinking into a corner pocket sounds just as sweet.

“What was that about wiping the floor with me, Ulrich?” James teases, fingers steepled and balanced on his pool cue as Lars tries to line up another shot with shaking hands. Sweat is gathering at his temples and Jason can’t help but pick up on how visibly jittery the drummer is, and it’s not like he doesn’t know why. He partook in the fun in the bathroom stall, after all, but it’s looking more and more like their “fun” will be curdling if Ulrich doesn’t get his way soon.

“Fuck off, Het, I’m just getting warmed up.”  
"Sure you are. Eat my entire ass, Ulrich. Eight ball, corner pocket.”

The blond saunters around the table, leans over, and takes his shot. As his pool cue connects with the white ball and sets off the chain reaction to his victory, all the drummer can do is stare slack-jawed as he watches the eight ball vanish into the pocket. Immediately he shouts for a rematch, re-racking the balls and applying even more chalk to his cue as if it’ll save his ass from another crushing defeat.

Lars’s noisiness attracts a crowd; The rest of Metal Church, Bobby, even their sound crew—a rare occurrence for them to be around for the evening—have all come to witness what James is now referring to as the _Ballbusting of Ulrich_ , much to the drummer’s disapproval. As the results of the next match pan out to look more and more like another Hetfield victory in the bag, Jason watches quietly as the frown on Lars’s face grows deeper, as the cracks in his fragile ego become more obvious. Kirk quickly joins Jason at the table he’s made himself comfortable behind and they share a look over the rims of their beers as they watch the next match between James and Lars slowly unravel.

Every ball sunk into a pocket earns James another unwarranted insult from Lars and even Bobby has stepped in to mediate now, which only succeeds in pissing off the drummer even more. He wrings the pool cue angrily, hands squeaking against the lacquered wood as he leers daggers in the direction of James while he lines up another shot.

“C’mon, stop being so fucking good, Het, it’s fucking annoying.”  
“C’mon, Lars, stop being a fuckin’ sore loser,” the vocalist volleys back, eyes remaining trained on the white ball as he aims for the red number three. “ _It’s fuckin’ annoying_.”  
“You’re being a show off.”  
“I’m playing the fuckin’ game like you asked me to, it’s not my fault that you suck.”  
“I don’t suck, you’re just being a dick.”  
“I’m not being a dick, you’re just a cunt. And I’m winning.”  
“Pfft, whatever,” Lars curls his lip into a sneer. “At least I was able to fuck Newkid first.”

His comment sucks the air out of the room.  
Slowly, James pivots on a heel and trains his glare on the drummer, expression souring as he opens his mouth to speak.

“… _excuse me?”_

Lars’s grin is nothing short of fiendish and he leans back to rest his palms on the side of the pool table. “You heard me, Het. You may have won the game, but I fucked Jason first. Several times, as a matter of fact. _”_

James doesn’t— _can’t_ —say anything. There’s something spread across his face that’s equal parts shock and injury and his bottom lip trembles as he searches for his words. The drummer, seeing his reaction and knowing he’s got him pinned right where he wants him, keeps his face straight and sends him an empty look; he shrugs innocently as if he didn’t just drop a nuclear bomb on the entire room—Kirk, Bobby, Church, the Sound Crew, and fucking _God_ all as his witnesses.

“What’s wrong, Het? Not so smug now, huh? I wonder what Jason has to say about it all, seeing as he was more than happy to pile-drive his dick into me.”

Now there’s a dozen pairs of eyes fixed on Jason as he chokes on his beer. He pounds a fist across his chest in an attempt to clear his throat while his gaze hops from face to face to face—suddenly he feels small, _so very small_ , and he can’t think of anything else to do other than guide his eyes down to the floor before he dies of shame.

_Not like this.  
Not like this._

This is the exact opposite of how he wanted the news to be broken to James because the whole situation demanded to be handled with such a high degree of care—and, as always, Lars has to come and turn the whole thing into a veritable shitstorm. He toes the ground; his entire body is trembling and he feels sick. Maybe he can find a crack in the wood paneling big enough for him to slip through because he’s never been this singled out, never felt so under the fucking gun before. _Betrayed_ wouldn’t even start to scratch the surface—He’s ready to get up and book it when a warm hand slides up his back to rest right below his neck, and when he lifts his eyes he sees Kirk, a shield between himself and the scrutinising gaze of the rest of the room.  
  
“Eyes on me, buddy. Don’t look anywhere else.”

Kirk repeats the mantra and Jason does as he’s told because admittedly, he can’t do anything else, he’s so overwhelmed by the magnitude of it all—but he can still hear Lars from his spot on the pool table as he continues to tear into James.

“You always think you’re so on the money, Het. Always think you have the upper hand. It’s sad. He’s a good fucking lay, too. Nice big cock—“

There’s a sickening crack followed up with a thud, and when Jason is able to peek over Kirk’s shoulder he spots Lars on the floor, dropped like a bag of bricks and with James quickly stooping down to straddle him.

Then, the room explodes.

Everyone decides to scramble all at once and a giant mess of tangled limbs and panicking crew clusters around James. He pummels into Lars, cranking bloody knuckles back again and again and again before there’s five of them pulling him off and he still has Lars by the hair, refuses to let go, even as ten hands dig into him to pry him from the drummer. Jason can hear him screaming— _Fuck you, Fuck you, you scheming sonuvabitch—_ and it takes both Bobby and John, their two heftiest men, to finally peel him off of Lars and pin him to the wall. Mick, their sound engineer, now has Lars up on his feet and is wiping away the angry stream of blood that’s pouring from his nose and mouth, checking for broken teeth or fractures from the repeated collisions with James’s fist.

All the while, Kirk is still standing between the commotion and Jason, making sure that the trembling bassist keeps his eyes locked on him.

“Stay with me, Jase.”

There’s blood and screaming and then the bar manager is coming over to see just what the _hell_ is going down, and the only thing Jason’s body will allow him to do is remain seated on the barstool, beer clutched in his shaking hands with a death grip, and he lets Kirk’s touch on the back of his neck be his anchor. His head is swimming with a million different scenarios and outcomes, playing out every scene possible, and he feels like he’s drowning. Bobby and John are talking with James now—well, _trying_ , at least—and James is having _none_ of it. He shoves them away, peels himself from the wall, and points an accusatory finger at Jason that only serves to drill into him even deeper.

“ _You. Me._ We’re going for a beer walk. _Now._ ”

The way James snarls his words, everything from the grit in his voice to the mere inflection he garnishes them with has Jason wishing he could be anywhere else. The bassist clings to his can of Molson’s; James’s glare is cold fire and there’s no other way of putting it—he’s about to get _burned._ Saying he’s scared is too reserved, because right now Jason is fucking _terrified._

“James, don’t even think of going out there,” Bobby steps in, thinking that the frontman will actually listen. James cuts him down with a stare and shoves past, a freshly cracked can of Coors in hand.  
“ _Fuck off_ , Bobby _,_ ” comes the sharp snap of the singer’s voice and their manager instantly recoils, not wanting to cross the line further. “ _Fuck right off._ Jason and I have business to square up. If you even _think_ of following us out you’re gonna be peeling your ass off the fuckin’ _ground.”_

Nobody says another word and as the bassist slips from his seat and follows James to the door. Nobody stops him.  
Everyone is deathly silent, save for the occasional sniffle and groan from Lars as Mick patches him up, and as he treads in Hetfield’s wake he feels like he’s heading to the gallows. Jason can see there’s still blood smeared across James’s knuckles when the singer reaches for the handle and he can’t stop himself from withering further. Will it be his smattered across the back of that hand next? He tries not to give it any more thought. His nerves are on fire enough as is.

Once they’re out in the parking lot, James doesn’t hold back.

“Really? Fucking _really, Jason_? Is what he said true?”

Jason looks down at his shoes as he walks next to James— _this is it_. He has one chance to be completely transparent, once chance to come totally clean. He doesn’t think anything can be salvaged at this point because Lars did a right job in making sure he fucked things up nicely, and the bassist has decided that he’s not going into this conversation to try and patch things up but for _damage control._ He still very much wants to play for the remainder of the tour, even if no semblance of the relationship he and Hetfield once had can be saved.  
The bassist sucks in a breath, tightens his grip on his beer, and prepares for the worst.

“…Yes.”

He doesn’t just hear the disappointment in James’s sigh—he _feels_ it, too. Feels it in his throat, in his chest, in his heart, because he’s doing the same thing, too. He takes a deep pull from his beer because if he doesn’t he’s just going to choke.

“I can’t believe it,” James walks on, not even sparing a sideways glance. “After everything we’ve been through. After all of the shit we’ve endured…just. _Incredible.”  
_ “I’m sorry.”  
“It doesn’t matter.”  
“It _does._ I’ve been meaning to tell you about this since it first started. Lars wasn’t supposed to blow it out of proportion like this.”  
“Oh, so this _has_ been going on for a while, then. Either way: It _doesn’t_ fucking matter.”  
“It matters to _me,_ James.”  
“ _Nothing_ fucking matters. Save your apologies for someone who fuckin’ _cares._ ”

There’s a strange, uncomfortable silence that sets in, only broken by the rhythm of their feet as they steadily crunch through the snow. It seems as if Hetfield is mulling over Jason’s admission, thinking long and hard about it, and his expression continues to ferment into something unreadable. So, this is the way that Hetfield is gonna be, huh? Jason chews the inside of his cheek; he’s trying to be an adult about this— _he really fucking is_ —but as the vocalist continues to stonewall him, Jason’s patience diminishes with each passing second.

Then, after a moment:  
  
“So, those hickies on your neck are from him too, huh? How about the ones from last week? Just how long have you two been screwin’ behind my back for?”  
“For fucking _real,_ Het? That’s all you care about?” Jason counters, still refusing to look over at James and instead keeping his vision trained on the ground. Neither of them will spare the other that kind of courtesy or respect—at least not for now. “What does it matter? Why do you care so much about where I dip my dick, huh? Are you my fucking _boyfriend_ or something?”

The way that James recoils at his phrasing only serves to piss Jason off further, but his frustrations are valid—if he and James aren’t a thing, then why does it matter so fucking much? What gives? James remains expediently silent, even as Jason needles him with the question a second time: _What are we?_

“Convenient that you don’t have anything to say now,” Jason adds with a sour laugh after he takes a pull from his beer. He can feel the blood pulsing in his temples and he’s trying his damndest to not completely fly off the handle, but _goddammit_ James can be so stubborn.  
  
“It must be _so_ convenient to be able to just push everyone the fuck around and demand answers whenever _you_ want them, but as soon as any of us ask the same of you, you just shut the fuck down. It must be really great being able to get what you want all of the damn time, huh?”  
“Jason.”  
“No, Het, don’t fucking _Jason_ me. You’ve been stringing me on for _weeks_ now and I’m such a fucking sucker for it. I’m tired, James. What the fuck do you want from me? First you’re itching to get your dick in me, the next second you’re giving me the cold shoulder, and now _this_ shit? Sorry, Het, but I never got the memo that I’m not allowed to screw around while you still are.”  
“That’s not true.”  
“Yes it is. Lars told me about how much you’ve fucked around. How you’ve been fucking around with the _entire_ goddamn band.”  
“That’s…” apprehension stains James’s voice and it’s clear that he’s balanced on the edge of a knife now. Hetfield is choosing his words carefully and Jason can sense it. “…Not what this is about.”  
“Then what _is_ it about, Het?” Jason presses on, unwilling to cave. “Because your argument isn’t fucking landing, man.”  
“You thought that fucking Lars _wouldn’t_ piss me off? Seriously? How could you ever possibly think that was okay?”

Jason stops in his tracks, leaving James a few paces ahead in the snow. He crumples the empty Molson’s in his grip and stiffens his back as James turns on his heel to face him.

“Oh that’s _rich_ coming from you,” the bassist bristles. “Tell me—how many times have you fucked Lars on this tour? Once? Twice? A dozen times? Hell, Het, has there _ever_ been a point where the two of you weren’t compulsively fucking like sex-starved maniacs?”  
“I hate to break it to you, _Newshit,_ ” It’s James’s turn to reel on him now and the edge to his voice is searing, “But I haven’t fuckin’ _touched_ that little twat since the tour started.”  
“Oh, and that’s somehow supposed to make me feel better?”  
“It’s supposed to make you realise that I haven’t been fuckin’ _playing_ you.”  
“That doesn’t change the fact that you’re grilling me for something you’re completely guilty of.”  
“At least I never went off and fucked around behind your back.”

The two men finally lock eyes in the darkness, faces barely illuminated by the streetlight above them, and even after all of the avoidant and noncommittal glances it still _hurts._ Even though he keeps his gaze fixed on the blue of James’s eyes, Jason is seeing _red_. He’s worked so hard— _so fucking hard_ —up to this point and all it took was a few misplaced words from someone else to shatter everything to pieces, send it all nosediving into the ground in a brilliant plume of smoke and flames.

“Have you ever stopped to think for a fucking second that I’m human? That I can’t do the right thing one-hundred percent of the time? That I make fucking _mistakes?_ I’m not perfect, James. Gimme a break and stop busting my balls, man.”  
“Yeah, well, it fuckin’ hurts, alright?”  
“For _fuck’s sake,_ James! We’re not even a ‘thing’!" Jason punctuates his sentence with air quotes. "You’ve made it _so_ fucking clear that neither of us are exclusive to the other and every time I ask, you just shut down completely. If you refuse to give me an answer, then why does it fucking matter so much to you?”  
“Because I still can’t believe you did this.”  
  
The bassist still can’t comprehend what he’s hearing. It’s like he’s been shouting into a vacuum this whole time and, much like how nothing can survive in a vacuum, logic and reason can’t survive within James. Jason just takes three steps forwards, closing in on the vocalist and getting right up in his face—he’s unsure of whether he can get his point across or not, but it’ll still feel damn good to try.

“Don’t be fuckin’ mad at me, James,” he grinds out, their noses a paper’s width apart. “And don’t be mad at Lars, either. You had your fuckin’ chance. You had _so_ many chances, Het—I really couldn’t have made it easier for you if I tried—and you just kept dragging your feet. So don’t be mad at Lars for swooping in on your chance when he saw your hesitation. Be mad at yourself, _dickhead_.”

And, with that, Jason turns his back on James and heads in the direction of the bar. He doesn’t even give him the chance to rebut because it won’t matter—James made that clear enough. What _does_ matter is the rest of Jason’s band and crew back inside that probably need help cleaning things up now—things _far_ more important to him in the moment than screaming mindlessly at someone who refuses to listen.  
  
He’s going to go check in with his people who still care.  
James will manage, with or without him.


	14. 12.11.1986

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks, long time no post! I hope y'all are ready for some good heart-to-hearts because things are getting gooey now and we're heading to Dialogue City for this chapter. And it's official! I'm moving mid-August, so if I suddenly drop off the face of the Earth, it's because I'm literally packing up all of my shit and relocating! Pray for me.
> 
> In the meantime, have some fluff.  
> (By the way: I'm not sure how many of y'all are into Slayer, but I've recently taken a crack at some Tom/Jeff smut, [go give it a read if you wanna see me ruin that fandom, too](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25239364))

**12/11/1986 – En Route to Winnipeg – Stopping Point: Thunder Bay**

Saying that touring has been a minefield for the last half a day is a gross understatement _._

Nobody is talking.  
Not Kirk, not Lars. _Hell_ , not even Bobby.

James has been exiled to spend the rest of the journey traveling with Metal Church—when their tour manager and Bobby put their heads together after the incident at the bar to see how they could diffuse the hostility between Hetfield and Ulrich, they deemed it most appropriate that they separate the two because _hey_ , if they’re going to act like children, they’ll be treated like children.

So, for now, it’s just Kirk, Lars, Bobby, and Jason on the bus—and it hasn’t been great. They’re five hours into the drive, just a little over halfway to their next rest stop when somebody finally breaks the ice and even then, it’s painfully awkward at best.

“We should grab dinner tonight,” Kirk slips from over his folded arms, chin balanced neatly on them as they remain draped over the back of his chair. It takes Jason a moment to realise that Kirk is talking to _him_ and he slides the headphones from his ears, giving the guitarist a curious look.

“Dinner? We’ll have time for that?”  
“Don’t you _ever_ read Bobby’s itinerary?” Kirk sighs with a shake of his head, but he still smiles anyways. “Thunder Bay is our halfway point, then we get put up in a hotel for the night. You wanna grab a movie, too? Star Trek IV is out.”  
“Don’t twist my arm like that, Kirk.”  
“You know you want to.”  
“I do.”

Even though the lower half of Kirk’s face remains concealed behind his arms, Jason can see the smile that plays in his eyes and it gives him a sense of quiet ease. Tonight should be fun, at least.

A few more hours pass, they pull into the hotel parking lot, and then the two musicians are hopping off the bus the moment the driver puts it in park. It’s dark now—they’ve finally reached that point in the year where the sun lowers itself too early in the evening—and while Kirk and Jason stumble around in the darkness, trying their best not to slip on ice, the bassist extends a hand to the smaller man to help him keep his balance. Hammett clasps on with desperate fingers, allowing Jason to guide him, and away they go.

They get directions from some locals to the closest theatre where they score their tickets for the next showing of _Star Trek IV_ and then it’s off to grab a bite and kill some time at the diner down the block—a cozy little family run place where they can shuck off their snow-crusted leather jackets and get comfortable in a corner booth. It doesn’t take them long to get their food and before they get too engrossed in casual small-talk, the guitarist is quick to excavate the topic Jason has been skirting around since the incident at the bar.

“Alright,” Kirk starts, pushing his potatoes around his plate. “Come clean.”  
“Come clean?”  
“You and Lars.”  
“Me and Lars what?”  
“Did you guys actually fuck?”  
“Uhh…” Jason hates how he can hear the apprehension in his own voice, but he continues anyways, “Yeah. Yeah, we did.”  
“How many times?”  
“Twice.”

Kirk’s smile is contrite and he shakes his head, but it doesn’t seem to be out of disappointment.

“Don’t stick your dick in crazy. Or at least that’s what I wish someone had told me before I stuck my dick in crazy,” He tries to play it cool by laughing it off, but it doesn’t prevent Jason from catching the regret that lingers in his eyes. “…and continue to stick it in Crazy.”  
“Great.”  
“He’s not that bad. Crazy, sure. And oh man, when he’s coming down from a bender, stay outta his way. But he’s really not that bad of a guy.”  
“I dunno, man. I think he’s done a fantastic job of proving to be just that.”  
“No, really, hear me out.”  
“State your case.”  
“Look,” Kirk gestures his fork in Jason’s direction. “I’m not trying to say that what Lars did last night wasn’t wrong—That was fucked up, and that’s clear enough. He shouldn’t have ousted you that way in front of me, Bobby, the sound crew, the boys in Metal Church, let alone fucking _James._ But now Lars has the bruises to show, and I think it’s all going to be a downhill slide from here.”  
“Like that’s ever stopped him.”  
“The guy clung to me crying all fucking night, man. I think he realises how much he fucked up. For real, this time. And that’s just how it is when dealing with Lars: you can yell and bitch at him all you want to _not do this, not do that,_ but until he falls on his face—like, _really_ falls on his face—he won’t learn. They say experience is the best teacher and, well…I think he got _experienced_ enough from James last night. He’s lucky nothing was broken, only bruised. James was absolutely pulling his punches because things could have been a hell of a lot worse.”

Jason pauses; time and again, Kirk's honestly has always shown through (with the exception of a certain incident involving wasabi), so hearing this bit of information is enough to get him to consider switching rails in his thinking. Just a little bit.

“Still,” Jason’s tone remains pointed. “It’s not gonna unfuck the past. It’s not like I can go back in time and stop myself from dipping my dick in him.”  
“Don’t beat yourself up too hard over it, man. What’s happened has happened. You said it yourself—you can’t go back in time and stop yourself from fucking Lars. We’ve _all_ had our own moments of, uhh… _senseless depravity_ , for lack of better terms.”  
“Yeah, but—”  
“But what? Are you just gonna beat yourself up over something you can never change? Experience is the best teacher, Jase…”  
“Well…”

“Look: What I’m saying is that shit isn’t unsalvageable, man. I’ve witnessed worse happen in this band,” Kirk is relentless, even from behind his gentle expression. Jason is practically fighting tooth and nail to get him to back up his claim and admit _yeah you fucked up astronomically, man_ , but instead the guitarist keeps hitting Jason with the realisation that maybe… _maybe_ things aren’t as fucked as Jason thinks they are. Kirk clears his throat and continues.

“You can’t change what happened. This is clear. But what you _can_ do is acknowledge what you did wrong and move on. My unsolicited advice? Square up with Lars, first. He’ll be easy seeing as he’s already kicking himself for stirring the pot. Just let him know that you’re cool, hold no ill-will, and he’ll be wrapped around your finger in no time. I promise.”  
“Alright,” Jason eventually manages between a mouthful of fries, but only because Kirk has decided to stop cutting him off, “So I can absolutely reconcile with Lars. This seems hopeful. But…”  
“But what?”  
“I’ve still got James. Gotta patch him up, too.”

Jason hears the exasperated sigh from across the table.

“Okay, Jase—Have you been fucking James, too? _Be honest_.”  
“Well…not quite fucking. _Yet_. But we’ve gotten close…Yeah. Real close.”  
“Alright. I’m not gonna say ‘don’t fuck your bandmates’ because I’ve been there, done that—well, am currently _doing_ that—and Lars is real good at keeping it casual. Just…just be careful with James, okay? Lars is one thing because he’s a helluva lot more business minded than the rest of us and can put everything that’s happened behind him, but James is a whole ‘nother can of worms. He’s got a lot of baggage—I mean, all three of us do, let’s be honest—but James just has…so many hangups. He’s a tough nut to crack and believe me, I’ve tried—good god, is that man too gorgeous _not_ to try.”

Jason can’t help but feel a little stung. He knows that Kirk isn’t being condescending, but it doesn't stop him from feeling like he's getting reprimanded for something that _everyone_ in the band is guilty of. He very well knew what he was getting himself into before Kirk issued his warning and getting his nose ground into it isn't helping at all.  
  
“’Be _careful_ with James? Yeah, shoulda known that before Lars went and fucked it all to kingdom come and back.”  
“Like I said, what Lars did was wrong.”  
“I Just…still can’t believe that Lars fucking did that. Just… _why?_ I thought we were good. He fucking _weaponised_ me against James. Played me like a goddamned fiddle.”

Kirk’s smile diminishes into something a little sadder, a little softer.

“Yeah, I see where you’re coming from. Feels like you’re a bargaining chip, huh? I’ve been in that situation, too. Ulrich and Hetfield are stuck in a perpetual game of tug-of-war over who’s on top in this band. But it’s nothing personal against you, Jase.”  
“It sure as hell feels like it.”  
“Please, _please_ just fucking believe me when I say Lars isn’t normally like this. He was never like this up until, well, the bus accident.”

There’s something pensive, something faraway and distant in the guitarist’s face and it’s painful to watch. Even someone as well laced together as Hammett has his cracks. Their grief runs deep. This is no surprise.

“It…just hasn’t been enough time for him to get his feelings out. To really, truly grieve. I don’t think I’ve seen Lars even _cry_ up until last night—not since the funeral, at least—and I know he wants to, because we _all_ do,” Kirk continues on and he brings a hand up to rub at his nose, but Jason sees past the ruse because there’s wet gathering in his bandmate’s eyes. “Just…some of us are processing it harder than others.”

“I can’t imagine how hard it’s been for all of you.”  
“I’m just so lucky that I have my music to channel everything through. Lars seems to have no problems pretending like everything is fine, but then he comes down hard on everyone because he hates feeling helpless. It’s easy to see that he’s terrified of letting another one of us slip through his fingers. Including you, Jase.”

The guitarist lets his words hang on the tip of his tongue for just a moment so he can collect himself and Jason lets him, averting his eyes back to his dinner so Kirk can gather his bearings. He understands; Kirk needs room to breathe.  
  
“But James?” the older of the two eventually picks up where he left off. “James is a huge can of worms. He is not… _not_ dealing with this well. He’s had a rough life up until now and things just got a hell of a lot rougher. I don’t think I’ve ever seen his coping strategies. Not sure if he has any, although…he has the Vodka, at least. I mean…we all do. Can’t possibly be good for us, but whatever numbs the pain, right?”  
“Right.”  
“My point is, there’s gonna be a lot of collateral damage to clean up. Especially where James is concerned. And I’m not saying don’t do it—because I think I’ve seen enough of your personality to know that when you wholeheartedly love something, you throw your complete being into it—but what I am saying is _be careful…_ alright Jase? Go. Go chase Het. Do what we’ve all wanted to for so long now, because if anyone can pin him down and help him heal, it’s gonna be _you.”  
“…what?”_

Jason can’t believe what he’s hearing. Did Kirk just give him the green light?

“So…You’re _okay_ with all this shit?”  
“Look. I haven’t seen James smile—like, _truly_ smile—the way he does when you’re around since before the accident. There’s just something that clicks between the two of you. I don't wanna say the chemistry is 'magical' because that's stupidly cliche, but there's just a spark between the both of you, y'know? You two may not square up all of the time because both of you are a couple of bull-headed dumbasses, but there’s something there. I can feel it. And you’re a sweet kid, Jase. And I’m sure that in half a year’s time when all of this touring bullshit is done and over with, it’ll be better. Lars and James have a high bar for you to meet, but they’re still not looking for a Cliff, Part Two.”  
“Yeah, yeah…Lars pulled me aside and said as much before my audition, actually. Still, though, it feels like every time I’m about to hit their standard, they move goalposts. It hurts. It really, truly hurts.”  
“I get where you’re coming from, but just humour me for a moment: If you couldn’t have met their expectations, you wouldn’t be here. It’s as simple as that. If you couldn’t vibe with us—be part of the group—we would’ve never give you a callback. So just chew on that for a bit. You wouldn’t be sitting here with me, you wouldn’t have a spot carved out on the bus for you, you wouldn’t be playing out of Cliff’s old amp if we _didn’t_ want you here, Jason. Think about that for a bit.”

This strikes Jason like a hammer; Kirk drives a convincing case.  
 _You wouldn't be playing out of Cliff's old amp if we didn't want you here, Jason._

While the bassist is absorbed in his thoughts, the guitarist checks his wristwatch and then suddenly begins pulling bills from his pocket.

“Paying already? I’m not that bad of a date, am I?” Jason laughs in Kirk’s direction as he starts fumbling for bills of his own.  
“Nah, I just don’t wanna miss the movie. We got twenty minutes.  
“Good to know.”

When Kirk sees Jason scraping his pockets for loose change, he just lets out a soft laugh and places his hand on his bandmate's, lowering it down and refusing whatever he’s about to offer.

“I got the bill, Jase.”  
“You sure?”  
“What, and let someone as good-looking as you pay for yourself? _I got this_.”

So Jason lets him.

It’s a five minute walk to the theatre, a five minute smoke break behind the box office, a five minute pitstop at the concession stand, another five to find a good seat in front of the silver screen, and then Jason can finally put himself on auto-pilot for the rest of the evening. By the time he and Kirk are walking out of the venue he can’t even recall half of the film’s plot because he was so consumed by the little details of their dinner conversation regarding the shitstorm that’s been touring so far. Everything seems to be falling in place— _finally_ —after what’s seemed likes weeks of trying to pick up the pieces, and it fills Jason with equal parts dread, hope, and silent anticipation because he finally feels like everything has crested and it’s all on the downhill now.

As they filter out of the theatre and down the back alley, Kirk finds himself in Jason’s grasp when he slips on a patch of ice. The bassist has lightning reflexes and swoops him up before he can hit the ground, and when the little guitarist can’t do much more than just hang frozen in his arms, he simply cranes his neck up and gives Jason a kiss. The cold clinging to the younger man's nose practically melts away when Kirk’s bumps against it and their lips meet for a moment longer than needed, but it’s warm and it's welcome and, most importantly, it's enjoyable.

“I hope that wasn’t too out of line of me,” Kirk adds almost as a nervous afterthought when he breaks the kiss. “I just had to, though.”  
“Honestly? It’s a breath of fresh air,” the bassist’s response is truthful, if not a tad embarrassing for him to admit and he balances his hands delicately on Kirk’s to help him upright his posture. Kirk has been nothing but sweet to him this entire time; from doing his best to stand up for him during Hetfield-Ulrich arguments to selfless gestures such as passing off essential oils for hangovers and paying for his dinners, the guitarist has extended an invaluable warmth and kindness to Jason where others have fallen short. And, in all seriousness? Kirk is just fucking _cute_ and nothing is stopping Jason from leaning in again and rewarding himself with another stolen kiss.

As Jason leans in, Kirk takes a few steps back until he’s pressed firmly against the bricks behind him and then they’re both locked up in each other. It’s so different from James and Lars, the bassist can’t help but think, because where James is rough-hewn and Lars is painfully forwards, Kirk is just _soft._ He’s the perfect mixture of rounded edges and warmth and absolutely delicate without being fragile, and it’s almost a shame that neither of them have any intention of taking this moment further because the prospect is admittedly enticing. They both know that anything past this point is irresponsible—despite how much their hormones want them to take it—and instead settle in the comfortable mutual agreement that they’ll put life on pause to share this moment before resuming business as usual. Like Jason said— _it’s a breath of fresh air.  
  
_ And there’s nothing wrong with that.

“You’re a good kid, Jase,” Kirk’s interjection as he breaks for air is unexpected.  
 _“…Huh?”_  
“You heard me. You’re a good guy. You have a good heart.”  
“…Did you hit your head or some shit when you fell?”  
“No,” Kirk just laughs it off, all smiles and warmth despite the snowflakes that cling to his eyelashes, to the rim of his scarf, and there’s something about the way his eyes catch the glow of the Christmas lights sparkling in the distance that fills Jason with an indescribable homesickness. “You’re just great. Plain and simple.”  
“...You're kissing my ass, aren't you?"  
“Shamelessly so. And I hope it makes you stick around for a long time, Newkid.”  
“As long as you don’t give me a reason to get the hell outta dodge, I think we’re all good,” Jason returns with an easy smile.  
“You think it’s time to head back to the bus?”  
“I do. Don't wanna keep them thinking we're having fun without them."

And with that they make their way back, careful not to slip on any more ice patches, fingers laced between each other’s like stitches.  
Tomorrow will be another day and things are finally looking up.


	15. 12.12.1986

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Sunday, another update. We're finally on the downhill slope, boys, and things are starting to wrap up. I hope I haven't put you all through the grinder too badly! I mean, I have, but it could be worse, right? _Right?_ Then again, who knows if I have any other cards up my sleeve. 
> 
> As always, thank you all for the kudos and kind words. We're 50k words in, we've been going strong for a little over three months now, and I can't find the words that describe how much it means to me that everyone is still here with me. I may not always have the time or mental capacity to respond to each individual comment, but do know that I read them all, and I appreciate them all. Tremendously. Heart emoji.

**12.12.1986 - En Route to Winnipeg - Thunder Bay (Day Two)**

Contrary to how Jason was feeling the night before, things are _not_ looking up today.

James hasn’t set foot in the tour bus since the incident at the bar and to make matters even worse, he was a no-show at the interview with a local Canadian radio station Bobby scheduled first thing that morning. Their tour manager insisted they carry on without him— _If Het is too fuckin’ hungover to show his face, then fuck ‘em—_ and pulled the trigger anyways, sending the three musicians off to the studio. Simply put, it just felt _wrong_ sitting there in the little booth with no sign of James and judging by Lars and Kirk’s more than quiet demeanour, the feeling was mutual.

The only silver lining, Jason supposes, is that he had the opportunity for a long and private chat with Lars regarding what happened at the bar two nights back—and, just as Kirk predicted, Lars handed over a practically gift-wrapped apology, spilled over tears and coke in the awkward confines of a radio station bathroom stall. The ever-bleeding heart that he is, Jason accepts (but now once bitten and twice shy) and the pair agree to keep things strictly cordial between them—at least for this leg of the tour.

One awkward interview down and eventually their frontman drags himself to the first of their afternoon sessions, nursing an extra large Coors, an even larger hangover, and carrying an undisputed attitude as he sways his weight from side to side, very much drunk and so terribly hurting. They have back-to-back interviews booked through the rest of the evening because Bobby is insistent they get in good press on their days off (and he’s not wrong; it’s a strategic move), but James is not having any of it. _Any of it._

He’s always been silent for these things anyways, instead electing for Lars to be the voice of the band, but the way he’s clammed himself up and shut everyone else out is more than frustrating. This continues well until the late hours of the night, long after the sun makes its parting farewell and the little Canadian town they’ve stopped in for the night is embraced by winter’s rime, and James carries his stonewalled silence with him into the bar chosen to drink away their frustrations—both with touring and with _each other_. Bobby elects to head back to the hotel early as he has tomorrow’s business to sort out and leaves the four to brew in silence over their whiskeys. By the time they stumble outside and hail a cab, the cold snap of the frost and wind is in full effect, they’re chilled bone-deep and in need of rest, and terribly, horribly drunk.

A co-op cab pulls up to the curb and they pile in; James silently nominates himself to ride shotgun and nobody stops him. Jason, now stuck in the middle between Kirk and Lars in the back, tries his best to get as comfy as a drunk man riding the bitch seat in a car with buttery suspension can get. To put it nicely: It isn’t pleasant. He gets an accidental elbow in the ribs and a flimsy apology from Lars as the drummer tries to fish the hotel address scribbled on a napkin out of his pocket. Kirk has taken to staring out the window—he gets carsick easily—and the driver tries to quickly fill the awkward gaps of silence with small-talk, to which nobody responds. Lars rattles off the address and nothing further.

The cabbie whips the car into reverse, blasts out of the driveway like a bat out of hell, and for the first time in the last forty-eight hours Jason, Kirk, and Lars actually hear James speak up without being prompted: _Go easy on the gas, man.  
  
_The driver gives him a quick acknowledgement— _I’ve lived here my whole life, I could drive these roads blind, You’re in good hands with me, eh—_ but otherwise doesn’t let the advice sink in and does the opposite. While they speed down the road, Jason can see Lars wringing his hands over and over in his lap, and the cab throws them all to the side when the driver takes a corner just a little too hard for their liking. The bassist can hear something cracking, tiny little pops from somewhere in the cabin and it takes him a moment to realise that it’s Kirk’s knuckles—the guitarist is fidgeting, too, cracking his knuckles one by one by one by one. Lars moves his hands to the hem of his jacket now and is pulling at loose threads while his knee bounces wildly—Jason can feel it against his own—and when Ulrich speaks up his nerves crack through his voice.

“Hey, uh, it’s kinda dark out? And… _snowing,_ y’know? That…that was a hard corner,” the drummer manages weakly, eyes trained on his hands, eyes trained on anywhere but out the window at the road.  
“Sorry, didn’t wanna miss the light, we’re all good. Just a bit of ice.”

The cabbie shifts a gear up and punches the gas once they hit a straightway; From his left, Jason hears Kirk’s breathing flutter.

“I said take it _easy_ on the fucking gas, man,” James’s words are no longer a suggestion, but a _command._ Judging by the way he snarls them out, his patience is unraveling. _Fast.  
_“Sorry, just trying to get you to your hotel as fast as possible.”  
“Yeah, well, make sure we don’t get there in fuckin’ body bags, dickhead.”  
“Sorry,” comes the second hollow excuse. It’s clear that their driver just doesn’t care. “No reason to get angry, it’s all good, I got chains on the tires.”  
“I don’t want you to say _sorry_ , I want you to _slow the fuck down_.”  
“ _Please_ slow the fuck down,” Lars parrots his bandmate and it’s clear by the wobble in his voice that this is setting off something inside of him, forcing repressed memories to bubble up to the surface whether he wants them to or not.

It’s dark. It’s icy. It’s snowing. Their cabbie is driving like an imbecile.  
It’s not hard for Jason to piece together the abrupt shift in mood because it’s like a switch flipping: One moment they’re stumbling out of the bar, drunk and exhausted but their tensions stilled by the booze, the next and they’re all gripping their seats with white knuckles as this batshit crazy taxi rattles them around the cabin like marbles in a jar.

The way Kirk has shriveled into himself, arms folded across his chest as if to protect himself wrenches Jason’s heart in a way that makes him feel useless, and then looking over at Lars—now sunk as low as possible into his seat and planting his feet on the back of the passenger seat, as if bracing for impact—just twists a knife into it.

It hurts. It _hurts_ seeing them this way, and he knows why, but he doesn’t know how to make it stop and all he can do is just place a hand on their knees and try his best to ground them because if it’s this painful to watch, the bassist can’t imagine how hard it is to digest this whole situation.

James is arguing with the cabbie now—his volume has been increasing steadily and he’s full-on shouting—and he’s drunk and belligerent and the way that Lars keeps repeating James’s orders to the driver is just working against them, and Kirk is still cracking his knuckles, and then the car fucking lurches, swerves out of their lane for just a moment, because James just _yanked the fucking steering wheel_ and now everyone is full-blow panicking with Jason trapped right in the middle.

Lars screaming from the back seat is making it near impossible for the cabbie to hear James, who just keeps trying to grab at the steering wheel because the distractions are making the driver wander lanes, and as Kirk leans across Jason’s lap to try and calm the drummer it just makes him worse—he swats his hand away and continues to shout at the driver with James. It’s complete chaos and they’re coming up to a red light and four-way intersection, fast—Jason can see it approaching—and they’re not stopping. They’re not slowing down. James and the driver are too wrapped up in arguing with each other and holy _shit, fuck, they’re not slowing down. They’re not going to make it._

“Hit the _FUCKING BRAKES!”_

Jason reaches up into the centre console and wrenches the handbrake without any warning. They’re skidding over ice now, vehicle screeching in protest, and that’s when they hear the latch pop on the back driver’s side door and fly open. It takes no more than a glance at the empty seat next to them for Jason and Kirk to realise that Lars threw the door and barrel-rolled his ass out as soon as he heard that ear-splitting squeal of the tires—while the car was _still in fucking motion_ —and the cab is just barely clearing the crosswalk with a foot to spare when Kirk kicks his own door open and bolts back down the road after their drummer, shouting at the top of his lungs. Jason can see the silhouette of the little Dane in the rear-view mirror hauling ass into the darkness as they finally grind to a stop and when he lowers his eyes to look through the windscreen, he can already see James lumbering around the front of the car. Hetfield doesn’t give a flying _fuck_ if they’re stopped at a light or if there’s still traffic around them, and the way that his hands are curled into fists, the way his brow is pinched into a tight crease, his nose wrinkled into a snarl all point in the direction that he’s going to fucking _kill_ this sorry sack of a man.

“You _son of a bitch,_ ” Jason car hear the vocalist grind out as he wrenches the driver’s door open. He’s going to kick the living shit out of this guy and Jason scrambles as fast as he can to get out of the back seat before somebody dies. James is already gripping the driver and about to yank him from his seat by the time Jason snags him around the waist and hauls him back.

“Drop him, James!”  
“Like _hell_ I won’t! He _almost fucking killed us.”_  
_“Drop him!_ He’s not worth it!”  
“Fucking make me!”  
“James, _stop_!”

The vocalist is spitting fire, barking and snapping like a dog as he yanks against the bassist’s grip, but Jason wrangles him back just enough for his foot to land on a patch of ice and then they’re both crashing down to the asphalt. James manages to wrestle out of his bandmate's grip, but by the time he's back on his feet, there's the sound of a car door slamming and off goes their ride home, speeding down the street and hanging a hard right before vanishing past a gas station.

James nearly runs after him— _nearly_ —but suddenly there’s a hand clasping his, anchoring him down and that’s when the magnitude of it all hits him like a bag of bricks. His nerves are on fire, the adrenaline shooting through his system is starting to taper off, and a sense of frustration distills in him where panic and rage had initially taken up space. He lets his bandmate coax him into taking a seat on the curb beside him and just _breathe_ because he’s not sure if it’s the cold in his lungs or the trauma he’s processing that’s making it so hard for him to do so, but as he stares down at his shoes he can’t keep the images from flooding back. It was a cold night, just like the one now, where he suddenly and without warning had to claw his way out of steel and shrapnel and darkness onto an icy road, only to find that one of their own would never be emerging from the aftermath. Being made to relive that night over and over and over again, sitting on the curb and watching everything replay in his mind's eye just continues to cripple him, and it's no wonder that Lars threw the latch and bailed once he realised what was happening. He'd rather throw his own safety away than be forced to repeat the past, and James gets it. He more than gets it. He was there, too.

 _It hurts._  
  
Everything is muffled—he can’t recall when his hearing fuzzed out—but it doesn’t matter. He sees the ice on the asphalt webbing in the cracks like broken glass and he drags a finger through it. The bite of the frost is searing to the touch, but it helps remind him that he’s still _alive_. There's something rubbing circles in his back and he lets himself sway with the motion, surrendering control for a fleeting second and letting it rock him like a tide. When his audio finally phases back in sync with his visuals, Jason is saying his name over and over again, is clasping his hand with his own, and all of his senses suddenly returning is putting him on overload. He stares into the blue of the bassist’s eyes because it's the only thing he _can_ do, reaches down to their depths and realises that in less than half a second, they could have been snatched away, too. All it would have taken is one more yank on the steering wheel, one missed light, one popped latch on a door, and it would be lights out. _Forever_. He feels the need to say something— _don’t go_ —but can’t get it out. The words just can’t manifest, his throat won’t work, and his chest is heaving too hard for him to do anything past tremble and breathe.

He hears shoes crunching over snow and when he finally musters up the strength to look over his shoulder, Kirk is walking his way, Lars in tow and with the guitarist’s jacket slung around his shoulders like a safety harness. His eyes are feral and wide, face sheet-white, and he’s quick to drop himself onto the curb like a bag of bricks. The guitarist sees he’s still shaking, unable to keep himself still. There's holes in the knees of his jeans where he kissed the asphalt but, other than a smear of blood and a few bruises, he's practically unscathed. Ulrich has always been a lucky bastard, after all.

Jason rises to meet Kirk and they exchange words. James can’t quite make out what’s being said, but he picks up on key points— _Payphone, Bobby, Van, Be back soon—_ and then Jason is crouching in front of him, clasping his face with his hands.

“I’m coming back for you, I promise. I’ll find a payphone and get Bobby, and we’ll be back with the gear truck. Don’t go _anywhere_.”

And with that, the bassist turns on a heel and jogs down the road.  
James watches him until he fades into the distance, until his figure is absorbed by the city lights and he vanishes, and that’s when it sinks in— _he can’t let him go._

All of this petty bickering, all of these shattered feelings and ridiculous expectations—they’re all fucking trivial at best.

The three musicians remain seated on the curb in complete silence. Nobody wants to bring up what just happened. Not yet. They’re all trying so hard to keep themselves in one piece that the risk of bringing up the catalyst for all of this unprocessed grief can’t be chanced.

Lars is stilled folded in on himself, arms circled around his knees and staring off at the lights along the skyline when he suddenly hits James with an unwarranted apology.  
  
“I’m sorry for fucking Newkid.”

It catches the guitarist off guard and the only thing he manages is a choked and jumbled _What?_ The drummer remains unmoving, eyes fixating on the cracks in the asphalt, chin resting on his knees.

“I’m sorry for fucking Newkid, James.”  
“I…I don’t follow.”  
“Christ, James. How on-the-nose do I need to be?” The little Dane snaps, picking at a loose thread on his jeans. “I’m sorry. For fucking Jason, and for what I said at the bar. And how I completely mishandled this whole mess.”  
“…just… _why?”  
_“Look,” Lars sighs out, letting his knees drop and he folds his arms across his stomach. “I don’t care if it’s ‘ _in the past’_ or whatever, I’m still fucking sorry for what I did, and I still need to make you know that I am. If not for me and you, then for Jason.”  
“…for Jason?”  
“You heard me, Het.”  
“I do…but...I don’t get it.”  
“Look, jealousy is a nasty, ugly thing, and I’m not as fucking flawless and salt-of-the-earth as I’d like to say I am. I know you and Jase have had a thing going on for a while, and I saw it as a threat to the band. Especially after what happened with you and Dave and how that shitstorm blew over.”  
“We _don’t_ have a thing.”  
“Oh for _fuck’s sake_ , James,” the drummer's eyeroll is palpable. “Like _hell_ you don’t. Are you really going to sit there and fucking _lie_ to yourself? _Fuck_ , dude, and I thought I was hard-headed.”  
“It doesn’t matter.”  
“Yes it fucking does. I tried to wedge myself between you two as hard as possible because the last thing I wanted was to buy another cross-country greyhound ticket for another friend. And that was stupid and dickheaded of me, and I thought I was protecting what was important to me. Turns out I was just throwing a fucking wrench in things, and I’m _sorry_.”  
“It’s fine.”  
“No it’s fucking not. I’ve made shit so miserable for you two. You haven’t spoken to us in two— _two—_ days, Het. I’ve been a dick and you and Jase have been taking the lashing for my hang-ups. I’m sorry, let’s get this shit blown over and done with, and lay it to rest. _Please?_ ”  
“Okay…okay, Lars.”  
“Because,” the drummer’s voice wobbles, cracks, and he pauses to still his nerves. “Because life is too fuckin’ short to let this shit consume us, okay?”

James lets the silence linger between them as he digests Lars’s words. Brevity has always been a strong point of the drummer’s and even though this apology verges on curt, emotion-ridden, and spur-of-the-moment, it’s _valid_.  
He has a point: Life really is just way too fuckin’ short to let this shit consume them.

“So accept my apology. Or don’t. It doesn’t matter,” The drummer picks up where he left off, and when he turns to face the guitarist James can just barely make out the lingering remains of the red-purple bruise around his eye from two nights prior. “But you need to get square with Jason, because if anyone deserves your love and time, it’s _him._ He’s been the glue holding this shit together for weeks now, man, and he’s hurting.”  
“…I can’t help but think this is out of character coming from you, seeing as how just last week you wanted to fire him.”  
“Look, James, I’m not in a good headspace. Nobody is, and it’s clear to see we’ve all had our heads shoved _far_ up our asses, our fingers in ears going fuckin’ _La La La_ like everything is fine when it’s obviously not. He’s been the ass-end of our jokes for _weeks_ and yet he’s still here. I bet you if we had hired Claypool to play bass he would’ve been gone in two minutes. _Two_.”  
“Fair enough.”  
“No. Not fair. Not to him. You _owe_ it to him, James. I’ve made my peace, and now it’s time for you to make yours. And let’s just get this shit straight now while it’s on the table: I don’t give a fuck and half about what you two do in your spare time, but for god’s sake, don’t let me hear you, and don’t let me walk in on you. _Again_.”  
“... _Okay_. Just…do you really think I have a running chance of patching things up?”  
“Yeah. And you better fuckin’ do it, too, or I’ll fuckin’ tie you down and force you.”

James doesn’t laugh. Lars’s attempts at lightening the mood fall flat and he backpedals once he sees the distress that seeps through every pore, every line on James’s face, even in the darkness.

“I know it’s been hard. I know it’s been hard since, well…since Cliff passed,” Lars changes gears because he needs to dig deeper, get more to the blistered core that’s keeping James from healing over, and just saying Cliff’s name is enough to earn a flinch from the blond. “It’s hard for me, too. But you need to let go, Het. We all agreed this isn’t what he would want. Pick yourself up, acknowledge that things will never be the way they used to, and move on, man. I know you’re ruminating. I see you absorbed in thought all of the damn time, and looking at Jason the way you used to look at Cliff, and I know you’re looking for _him._ Looking for those tiny little nuances that you found in Cliff that you’re now trying to find in Jason. He’s gone, James. We’re not getting him back.”

James elects his silence to speak in his place.

The topic of Cliff has been a point of contention not just for him, but for the entire band, and finally allowing someone to pry this deep into his psyche and make him face this issue head-on is far from easy, and Lars knows this. He can practically feel James’s discomfort pulsing off of him in waves—he’s more than aware, because talking about this is hurting him just as much—but unlike Lars, James has always been one to bury everything beneath a solid, hardened layer of indifference. Bury it, push it all down, don’t let it show, and he’s done this for as long as Lars can remember.

“I know it’s hard. I’m working on it, too, because I’m far from ‘better’. But listen to me, James. If you’re not going to do it for me, or for yourself…do it for Newkid. Okay?”  
“Yeah…Yeah, I’ll try.”  
“You better, because it’s fuckin’ rough watching you crucify yourself over old ghosts you’ll never outrun. Open up, James. Just open up, and _let go_.”  
“I know, Lars.”

Lars catches the tail end of a sob and he stops his needling—he’s gotten what he’s wanted. It’s best he gives James a moment because this has all come crashing down like an avalanche, but before he allows the silence to seep back in he can’t stop himself from pitching one last burning question that he’s been needing the answer to for a while now:

“…You love him, don’t you?”  
  
Before James can sputter out an answer, they’re greeted by the beep of a horn and high-beams in their faces as a van pulls up to the curb. They hear their names shouted individually— _James! Lars! Kirk!—_ and Jason is hanging out the passenger window, waving them over with a hand. From over his shoulder they spot Bobby behind the wheel, just barely visible from the darkness of the cabin. James practically bolts to the vehicle and hops on board, Kirk following closely behind him.

Lars is the last to join the caravan, but as he makes his way over to the sliding door he can’t help but notice how James has seated himself right behind Jason, and he finds his answer not in the vocalist’s words (or lack thereof), but his actions.

Yeah.  
Yeah, he does.


	16. 12.14.1986

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! An update! I'm SO sorry for the wait, y'all. Things have been...intense...as of late. I moved, quit a job, started a new job, had family and friends end up in the hospital, and loads of other unfathomable shit occur. I'm still finding time to write, however, and we have just a few more chapters left before this story wraps up. As always, Thanks again for all of the comments, kinds words, kudos--everything. I can't keep up with answering each and every one, but I see them, I read them, and I absolutely appreciate all of them.

**12.14.1986 – Saskatoon - 1AM, Hotel Room**

_Cold._

_Ice._

_Black, black everywhere._

_There’s a screech and crack, and he’s struggling for balance. He’s falling.  
_ _No, he’s not.  
_ _He’s falling again.  
_ _No, he’s on his side.  
_ _Impact.  
_ _Glass shatters. He’s struggling, then he’s on his belly, dragging himself along the ground. Square of light. He sees it. He reaches for it, then he falls again. Keep going. They call his name._

 _Screaming around him. What’s happened? Screaming outside again. Crying. Reach for the light. Keep going.  
_ _Panic. Need to get out. Keep going. Reach. Can’t breathe.  
_ _Crying. Keep going.  
_ _Two faces. Where’s three? There should be three. Where’s three, where’s three?!  
  
_ _He’s found his balance. On his feet. Can’t run. No legs. Must run. Don’t stop. More shouting. One and two are here, where’s three?  
_ _He’s found his legs. No, not his. Poking out from the pile. He took his blanket with him. They’re trying to take it from him. No!  
_ _More screaming.  
_ _More crying.  
_ _Pain. Just pain._

_Those aren’t his legs._

_Those aren’t his legs._

_Those aren’t his legs._

He’s upright within seconds.

Fight-or-flight impulse engaged, heart hammering in his chest, and sweating bullets, James flies out of bed and nearly rips the door off its hinges before booking it down the hallway. He doesn’t care how late it is and he doesn’t care how much noise he’s making, he’s drumming on his neighbour’s hotel door anyways as loud as he can until it opens up. Until he _makes_ it open up. He doesn’t care if things have been rocky with his bandmate for the last few days, they’re going to fucking open up because he _needs_ to see him.

Jason answers in a panic and the first thing James does is clasp him by his face with both hands, look him right in the eyes, swirl a thumb over his cheek to make sure he’s _real,_ make sure he’s _there,_ and then crush him in an embrace once his brain assures him that yes, Jason is indeed there, alive and breathing. Unsure of just what the _fuck_ is happening but sensing the urgency of the situation, the bassist simply stands there and lets James press into him until his chest stops heaving, his breathing stills, and he can lead the trembling vocalist into his room to take a seat on the bed.

When Jason asks if he needs anything, _Alcohol_ is the answer—and as the older of the pair digs around in his belongings for a handle he can’t help but question just what in the hell brings the frontman to Jason’s door at the witching hour looking like he’s seen a goddamn ghost. It’s really not hard to put one and one together, though, and when shaking hands grip the neck of the Vodka like a vise it’s plain as day that something has James rattled down to the core.

The blond pops the cap and takes a hefty swig, breaks for air, then goes back for more because the initial burn just isn’t enough. There’s things inside of him that need to be killed and he takes a few more pulls until a warm and welcome numbness sets in behind his cheeks and nose. When he feels confident that the alcohol is doing its job, he finally lifts his eyes to meet Jason’s.

“I’m sorry.”

The bassist is taken aback; here’s James—shirtless, exhausted, and looking like he just got thrown through a fucking grinder— _apologising_ to him for god knows what. He raises a questioning eyebrow and takes a seat next to him on the bed.

“For what?”  
  
James gestures at himself with a broad sweep of the Vodka bottle, “For _this_.”  
“I don’t follow.”  
“Oh c’mon, Newkid, I was banging on your door half-naked at one in the morning like an idiot. I’d be fucking furious if I were you.”  
“Well, I’m not.”  
“ _Sure,_ ” James’s eyeroll is audible as he tilts his head back and takes another gulp. The liquor is definitely doing its job and he’s slowly becoming more impertinent. “I find that kinda hard to believe.”  
“Do you really think I’m going to slam the door in my bandmate’s face when he comes pounding on it in the ass hours of the night, looking like he just had a bomb dropped on him? After all we’ve fucking been through?”  
“Still.”  
“You fucking _scared_ me, James. I had no clue what the fuck was going on with you.”  
  
The look James sends him is quiet and contrite—he knows Jason has a point and just doesn’t have the gas to fire back.

“Just…I had a nightmare. That’s all.”  
“A nightmare?”  
“Yeah. I get them from time to time.”  
“…must’ve been pretty bad if it had you beating on my door.”  
“I’ve been getting them since September. It doesn’t matter. Nothing I can do about them except try to drown them out,” he punctuates his sentence with another long pull of Vodka.

 _Ah—_ there it is—a crack. A hairline, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it crack. Jason wants so badly to dig his fingers in and peel it all back, expose what’s broken and bleeding underneath James’s steel walls and suture it back together, but the guitarist won’t let him—at least, not all at once. It was cold and dark and the Vodka was flowing plenty when he and James had their first late-night heart-to-heart and the bittersweetness of it all makes something ache fiercely inside of him.

“Drown them out?” The bassist’s question is a finely pointed chisel and it’s held by delicate hands. Slowly, he begins working around the cracks.

“Yeah. I found that if I can get blackout drunk every night, they’ll stop,”  
A pause for alcohol. “They stay away if I do.”  
  
“They sound pretty terrible.”  
“Saying they’re _terrible_ is a hell of an understatement,” the guitarist adds. “If I don’t drink, I can’t fuckin’ shake ‘em.”  
“Yeah?”  
“Yeah. It’s like being haunted. I can’t get him out of my head.”  
“… _him?_ ”

The look in James’s eyes is glassy and distant. The alcohol may be taking its toll on his head, but his heart is still beating. Continues to beat. Continues to bleed. His voice wobbles when he tries to speak and it’s all he can do to hold himself together as he says his name:

“Cliff.”

As always, the word is a stubborn thorn that works right to the bone. No matter what Jason does, no matter how hard he tries, no matter how hard he gives, he can never provide what Cliff took when he left. When Jason sees James’s slumped form with his elbows resting on his knees, slowly swirling the Vodka bottle as he lets it dangles between his legs, eyes teary and wet, he does what the vocalist needs him to do most: he circles his arms around him, pulls him in, and closes the distance between them.

Then, James breaks.

“I’m trying,” he strains into the bend of Jason’s neck, “I’m trying _so fucking hard_ to keep him out of my head. But the nightmares don’t stop. Won’t stop. I have to relive the crash, I have to relive the accident one night a week, a few nights a week, sometimes nights at a time, and every time…”

James pauses to suck in a breath, take another drink, and Jason can feel his shoulders hitch against him.

“Every time, without fail…I’m forced to see him, crushed under that bus, and that’s how he lives in my head. And the only thing I can do to stop reliving those memories is to get so fucking tanked that I _can’t_ remember anymore. That’s the only way to make it stop.”  
“I can’t imagine how hard that is.”  
“So fucking hard. And I’m tired,” James’s voice snags and cracks, and Jason just pulls him in tighter. “And I’m angry. I’m angry that that has to be my last memory of him.”

And James is right: A part of Cliff _does_ live in him, now. There’s so many facets of their fallen brother that exist independently in each and every one of them—from Kirk’s softness to Lars’s precision...to Jason’s love _._

It’s taken James so painfully long to realise that this is what it’s been all along— _love_ —truly and unconditionally, and it hurts. Jason’s heart is full, spilling over with enough for both of them, and this sudden clarity within James is an exit wound that just might finally allow all of the hurt and grief and pain to bleed out. And, as if that wasn’t already enough, James realises he just wants to give to Jason all that Jason has given him.

His heart cries out, lost, searching, desperate to find that love somewhere within that’s been shut in the dark for so long. He’s so close that he can almost grasp it and the bassist has always been there to guide him through it all, a light when everything else was still and black. It’s more than difficult to find the words to express this and he’s still unsure if he can—if he ever will be—but for the moment he’ll just keep spitting out the demons. Eventually, he begins the process of untangling himself from the bassist’s embrace and goes back to nursing his Vodka. He’s let too much spill out already, so he may as well keep going.

“But I just needed to come and make sure you were okay.”

His words hook into Jason unexpectedly and hold him tight. Slowly, the bassist brings a hand up to his chest to clutch at the stretch of bare skin his heart beats under.

“… _Me_?”  
“Yeah, you,” James’s speech is sideways and slurred because he’s god-awful drunk now, but there’s sincerity in his voice. “I needed to make sure you were still here.”  
“…Why?”  
“Because it still hurts.”  
“Shit, man…I can’t imagine how much you miss him.”  
“No, not that,” James’s voice cuts like a knife and Jason can see the wetness that gathers in the corners of his eyes and rolls down his cheeks. “This extends beyond him.”  
“How so?”  
“It’s knowing that everyone leaves me in the end and there’s nothing I can fucking do about it. Everyone I ever gave a shit about. Gone. Never stopped dad from walking away. Never stopped mom from losing her battle with cancer. Never stopped Dave from leaving. Never stopped Cliff from dying. And every time I’m left asking the same question: _What did I do wrong? Why does everyone abandon me?_ And it fucking _hurts,_ okay? And the nightmares don’t fucking help. They’re just constantly reminding me of what happened. Of what _could_ happen.”  
“James…”  
“If I’m not careful, it could be Kirk, or Lars, or—or _you_ next, and, just… _fuck.,._ ”

Once again, Jason finds himself unable to speak. He edges in closer to James—he’s ready to catch his fall if need be. Whereas the bassist may be unable to produce the right combination of words needed, he still knows what James needs from him and, in this moment, James just needs him to be _there._ It’s not dissimilar to that first night on the bus and eventually it all adds up in his head—that sudden and unexpected first instance of the vocalist opening himself up must have been brought on by one of these nightmares. Hetfield crawling into his bunk that night wasn’t the alcohol driving him to do so, wasn’t him just being unhinged, and tonight is no different—it’s all spurred on by something deeper, something _more_ —a plea for understanding.

“I try to forget the past, but _nothing_ ever changes,” James continues and he’s not even trying to hide the grief and frustration that weighs down his voice like lead. Instead, he takes another noisy gulp of alcohol before powering through it and he has the same air about him as someone trying to make sense of putting together a puzzle missing half of its pieces. “I try to drown it out, but _nothing_ ever changes. I try to understand, try to learn from my mistakes, and still— _nothing fucking changes.”_

Jason is still unable to speak, but it doesn’t matter—his actions alone are still able to tell James what he needs to hear.

He clasps the vocalist by the face, tilts his head in his direction, and seals their lips together. This kiss is different—it’s not spurred on by hormones, hunger, or physical desire. This time, it’s driven by _longing—_ a need to heal and to be healed—and as both men press into each other, their connection feels so much _deeper_ , as if they occupy the same heartspace.

Because they _do_.

James is too drunk to admit it (because admission _still_ isn’t his strongpoint—but one day, it will be) and Jason is too caught up in processing his emotions, but they absolutely _do_ , and when they break for air Jason presses their foreheads together and gives them space to breathe.

“It’s okay, James,” there’s a tenderness in his voice that just wrenches on the blond’s heartstrings and that’s when he knows he’s reached a threshold. He’s grown fond— _too_ fond, and somehow along the way he fucked up and allowed the bassist room in his heart—and it’s too late to go back. Nor does he want to, really, which is the most terrifying aspect of it all. But he can’t help it—Jason has been his anchor through the thick of it, has borne the brunt of his grief and despair, and despite it all has stood at James’s side with unwavering and unconditional _love._ In the process, James has managed to foster this unnamed feeling within him that he just can’t grasp but with a gentle nudge from his bandmate (confidant, friend, partner, _lover_ ), he just may be able to soon enough.

He had promised to himself that he’d never let anyone else in this way again (or, at least not for a _long_ time), but here he is, melting into his bassist, just wishing the world would stop long enough for the hurt to subside and full well knowing that, with Jason, time does stand still long enough for that to happen.

“I’m just so exhausted, Jase. I’ve held this in for so long.”  
“You don’t need to keep going; you’ve shouldered enough.”  
“This is my weight to carry.”  
“It is, and I don’t care. I don’t care if you’re exhausted, or tired, or need to give up, because I’ll fucking carry you if I have to.”

His words couldn’t be more disarming—they cause James’s shoulders to drop, his jaw to unclench, his fists to uncurl. It’s just what he needs to hear and he has to choke back a sob because he can’t remember the last time another human being extended this level of warmth and kindness to him that he willingly accepted.

When he opens his mouth to say something he finds that he simply can’t—his world is already doing the Vodka-spins to unmanageable degrees and he’s struggling to keep upright, let alone speak—but he’s silenced by Jason craning in and pressing another kiss against him. He lets the bassist lay him back on the bed, take the Vodka bottle away, pull the blankets up, and circle his arms around him one last time. Gentle fingers card through his hair as he fades out and there’s one last thought that resounds within James’s head like an echo— _I just want to give to you all you’ve given to me._

James is out within minutes—mental exhaustion and Vodka take their toll soon enough—and Jason is left watching over the curled form of his bandmate (friend, idol, partner, _lover_ ). He continues to comb through golden waves as the vocalist is taken by what he can only hope is peaceful rest at this point, but he can’t help but fixate on the notion that James is closer than ever to dropping his guard and surrendering completely.

As Jason drifts off to sleep, fingers still entwined in James’s hair, he suddenly doesn’t care about the past. He doesn’t care about all of the petty bickering, the hazing, the infighting, any of that shit. _Fuck,_ he doesn’t even care about all of the future hazing he’ll be forced to endure at his bandmates’ hands, either. All he cares about is what’s here— _who’s_ here, laying against his chest for the umpteenth time this tour—and he’s going to pull the trigger. He can’t let this slip through the cracks again and it’s obvious that James is still too wounded to make the first move, so _he_ will. If he’s learned anything up until now it’s that there’s no such thing as “the right moment” because life is just too fucking short to sit around waiting for something to happen.

Is he scared? Fuck yeah, he is. It’s like edging up to a cliff and getting ready to jump, not knowing what’s at the bottom, but knowing it has to be done either way. They can’t just keep playing this perpetual game of catch-me-if-you-can because it’s not healthy for him, for James, or for the rest of the band, and it’s clear that _something_ needs to be said. Confronted. Admitted.

_By the end of the tour. I’ll tell him by the end of the tour._

And he knows it’s the right thing to do—for _both_ of them.

  
For now, he’ll let the gentle rising and falling of James’s chest and the steady beat of his heart sing him to sleep.


	17. 12.16.1986 - 12.17.1986

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Thought I was never gonna get this chapter uploaded, but here I am, with another update. Two more chapters, guys. Two more chapters! I have to wake up at 4AM tomorrow but stayed up editing and uploading because you know what? You guys are worth it.
> 
> Enjoy.

**12.16.1986 – Edmonton – Early AM**

The days are starting to blend together like a dream.

If you asked Jason, he wouldn’t be able to say how many have lapsed since their first show or their most recent. It’s a number that can be counted between three and four hands, that he knows for sure, but if you asked him anything else he’d be unable to confirm. Everything is happening all at once and it’s all he can do to not become swept away in the flotsam and jetsam.

James has remained quietly distant since he unloaded his heart a second time and it makes the bassist nervous.

They’ve had a few good moments since but nothing substantial, and it’s left Jason hanging on a thread, wondering if he overstepped his boundaries when James came to him in a panic to spill all of his guts about the nightmares eating him alive. And, just maybe, if Jason keeps it up at this rate, he’ll start having his own nightmares about James leaving _him._

He’s in a deep sleep, face down in the pillow and dead to the world when the sound of a phone pierces the silence. He bolts up, scrambles to snatch it off the receiver and nearly succeeds in rolling off the bed by the time it’s in his hands and up to his face.

“… _’ello_?” He’s embarrassed with how the words slur out and it takes him a moment to realise that he’s still drunk from the night before. _Shit._ Why did he even pick up the phone? He looks to the alarm clock—it’s 6AM.

“Oh, it’s him! That’s his voice, we have the right number, thank goodness,” a female voice chimes on the end of the line, followed by “Good morning, sweetheart.”  
“….. _Mom?_ ”

Jason isn’t sure if he hit his head and concussed himself—maybe he died from alcohol poisoning—but is he seriously hearing his _fucking mom_ over the phone? How’d she even get the hotel’s number? He has so, so many questions.

“Jason? I know it’s early, but then again you’ve always been an early riser and I just wanted to hear how you’ve been doing with your new band, if—if that’s okay, and if you have a moment.”

Suddenly he remembers that he’s just twenty-three, just a young kid who literally dropped out of high school and ran away to pursue his rockstar dreams, and that he still has a family—a mom and a dad and two brothers—back in Battle Creek that he all but abandoned to kick it in a band. He never even gave them a proper goodbye because he knew they’d come down on him with both thumbs the moment he announced his departure—he just got in a u-haul truck and left—and hasn’t seen them since.

“It’s…” Jason starts, trying to find the right words. _It’s been a fucking mess._ “It’s been great, mom.”

She sounds excited. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her about all the gritty shit that’s been happening for the last few weeks—but she doesn’t need to know.

“Yeah, Yeah, it’s been so fucking cool—”  
“ _Language_ , Jason.”  
“Sorry—The boys have just been doing such a great job making me feel warm and welcome and at home, it’s been absolutely phenomenal.”  
“That’s so good to hear. Dad and I are so proud of you.”

There’s a brief pause and Jason takes the moment to sit up and draw his knees to his chest, back resting against the headboard of the bed. It’s a bittersweet feeling, hearing his mother’s voice again, and for a while he had forgotten what he had left behind. He plays with the phone cord, looping it nervously around an index finger as he picks up where he left off.

“Yeah, yeah…It’s been amazing. Tough, but amazing. I’m loving every moment of it.”  
“That’s wonderful.”  
“Oh! Also!” Jason feels himself starting to take off—he’s not sure if it’s because he’s still slightly drunk or because he’s genuinely excited. Probably both. “The boys are just so fun to be around. Like, sure, touring is exhausting and really kicks the— _pants_ —off of us, but they’re great guys, really, and I’ve never felt more welcome. Japan was _phenomenal_ , there’s no place quite as cool as Tokyo, and now touring Canada has been crazy cool. I still feel like one of these days I’m going to wake up back home and this will all have been some kind of crazy dream. I still can’t wrap my head around it.”

A laugh on the end of the line.

“Just as long as you’re _behaving,_ alright?”  
“Of course, mom. Just, the whole experience. I’ve had my ups and downs, and stuff has been complicated at times, but I truly love every moment. Everything is so surreal, but beautiful, and exhilarating, and perfect, and…”

Then, he finally reaches a conclusion. Not the sucker-punch-to-the-gut variety that seems to have been pummeling him this entire time, but the quiet and content type. The type where you make the realization and go _ahhh, that’s it. That’s what it was all about._

He’s not talking about Metallica—at least, not in its entirety—he’s mainly talking about _James._ He sucks in a breath because he’s finally ready to admit this to himself. He takes the plunge.

“…and, I’m absolutely, utterly in love with the whole package.”  
“That’s fantastic. Really. Dad and I are so proud.”

Then, without thinking, Jason says something incredibly stupid:

“…Mom, can I make a weird request?”  
“Of course you can.”  
“Can I bring James—our, our singer, that is—home with me for Christmas? It’s just that he doesn’t have either of his parents to go back to when we take our two week break and he’s just going to be stuck in his shitty little apartment while the rest of us all have folks to go back to for the Holidays and I’d feel awful if—“  
“Of course,” his mother’s voice cuts him off and he realises he’s been rambling, but it doesn’t matter. His heart is about to rocket thirty-thousand feet into the sky—he’s walking on clouds. They’re a week out from Christmas and this is better than any gift he could possibly receive. “Of course he can, Jason.”

He's left entirely speechless. His mom must have heard his pause on his end of the line, because she asks if he’s okay.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, mom. Just…half asleep, still,” he wears his exhaustion as a mask because he doesn’t want to seem _too_ excited—even though he _is_ —and feigns a yawn.

“Of course, you’re probably totally worn-out,” his mom's laugh crackles over the receiver and it’s full of warmth. He misses her—a lot.  
“But your father and I are so excited to have you and Jim—“  
“ _James_ ”  
“ _James_ —sorry, Jason—over for the holidays.”  
“Yeah. Me too.”  
“Well, I’ll let you go, sweetheart. I’m sure you’ve got a tonne of band stuff to do today. Just remember to get lots of rest, stay hydrated, and go easy on the alco—“  
“Yes, _mom,”_ It's Jason's turn to cut her off with a laugh. “I’m doing all of that. You don’t have to worry, I’m twenty-three, I can take care of myself.”  
“It’s just because we love you.”  
“I know.”  
“Of course you do.”

They bid their bittersweet goodbyes and Jason takes a moment to slide his back down the headboard of the bed and sink into the pillows.

_James is really coming home with him for Christmas._

He swings his feet over the bed and stands on his own shaking, trembling legs.

_James is really coming home with him for Christmas._

He tugs on some sweatpants, sneakers, a t-shirt, because he needs to go for a run and discharge all of this extra energy. His head is spinning a million miles an hour. As he puts his hair up in a ponytail and grabs his room key, his brain can only fixate on one thing:

_James is really coming home with him for Christmas._

* * *

**12.17.1986 – Calgary – Midday**

Another night, another city, another show.  
Grind. Rinse. Repeat. That’s all touring is now.

Between Lars’s unexpected ceasefire, Kirk’s neutrality, and James’s drunken seclusion, they all seem like perfect strangers to Jason. Even Bobby has caught onto the unnatural silence that’s settled between the four ever since the explosion at the bar the week before and his suggestion breaks the ice with about as much force as a butter knife to concrete.

“Hey guys. There’s an ice rink just up the street from us. How about you four go slap some pucks and blow off some steam? It could be fun. I’ll pay.”

There’s lukewarm mumbles and shrugging shoulders but the pack moves as a unit and hey, Bobby has a good point. Maybe this _will_ be good for them. Maybe they can finally vent their frustrations instead of existing in a state of perpetually anticipating aggression. Still, Jason remains hopeful that this dour spell is simply ephemeral, that they'll shoot some pucks, get their troubles out, and everything will go back to relatively normal—especially since Jason has been aching fiercely for more time with James. He's got guts to spill to the vocalist, too, and the longer he lets these feelings sit and brew inside of him, the harder it's going to be to come clean. But he's made up his mind and it'll happen one way or another— _He'll tell James by the end of the tour._

Skating rink tickets are cheap and skate rentals are cheaper; forty-five minutes on the ice is their allotment and as soon as the puck drops, it’s two versus two. Lars is quick to buddy-up with Jason as they square off with Hammett and Hetfield. It’s easy to tell by the way they immediately go straight for the throat with each other that there’s so much pent up anger and frustration that needs to be bled and it has Jason silently praying that they keep it within the healthy confines of a game of hockey.

Pot-shots at each other’s goals quickly turn into pot-shots at each other, however, and within minutes the insults are volleying back and forth with the same intensity and aggression as the puck, leaving Jason wishing he was literally anywhere else than caught in the crossfire of another Hetfield-Ulrich feud. 

“Fuckin’ _hell_ ,” James spits on the ice as he tries to swoop in on the puck but falls short. He may have reach, but Lars is small and has speed, and the vocalist just can’t compete—especially since his gangly limbs are less than coordinated on a pair of skates. The drummer dekes the puck away once more and nets another goal. Past the point of frustration, James wrings his hockey stick between gloved hands as he skates backwards, eyes locked on Lars, gaze unforgiving and unrelenting.

“We should just throw the match, Kirk, since _certain_ people can’t seem to stop themselves from using underhanded tactics to score. Isn’t that right, Ulrich?”

The words sink in like teeth, catching Lars off guard. He pulls his mouth into a tight seam and chews his gum like his life depends on it, very well knowing that James’s comment was less about the fact he’s losing a game of hockey and more about Jason. More about how Lars managed to bag Jason before James, and how James is bitter. _So very bitter._

The drummer knows his bandmate well, however, and doesn’t fall for the ploy. He simply skates circles around the blond, keeping the puck just out of reach, keeping his head just level enough to wrangle James’s attitude with grace and finesse.

“Then get on my level, Het. Don’t hate the player—hate the game.”  
“Easier said than done, Ulrich. Especially when the player keeps riggin’ the damn match.”

James eyes the puck like a hawk, goes for a swipe, and is immediately blocked. Lars sweeps it away with ease and fires it into the goal for the thousandth time and everyone watches as frustration creases across the frontman's brow, cracks into thin lines at the corners of his mouth where it sits and festers.

“I feel like this extends past both players and games, Hetfield,” Lars pokes. His words are wielded with surgical precision and he knows just how to get James to say what he wants to hear. “I feel like this is something personal that you’d rather take out on the rest of us, instead of deal with like an adult.”

James wrinkles his nose, fires off an indignant snort, and goes to skate in towards the drummer but is quickly cut off by Kirk.

“C’mon, guys,” the guitarist pleads. “Let’s just keep playing the game. I’ve been having fun—can we _try_ not ruin it now because you two dickheads can’t keep it from getting personal?”

“Yeah, well, St. Ulrich over here thinks his shit smells better than everyone else’s. It’s _been_ personal. Shit’s gone south and now it’s affecting everyone. Even affecting our shows. Last night’s gig fucking _sucked._ ”

Kirk raises a questioning eyebrow at his bandmate.

“So this is what it’s about? C’mon, James, get over it. Let’s just keep playing.”  
“ _No_.”

Jason watches Kirk’s eyes go wide and his shoulders drop—he looks visibly stung—but he stands firm, despite the vocalist’s stubbornness. He’s not about to let him sour their day just because he’s pissed off about the previous night’s performance. It’s obvious at this point that James is choosing to be belligerent for the sake of being belligerent and he’s grasping onto the easiest and most convenient thing he can think of—how they fucked up the intro to _The Four Horsemen_ the night before.

“Really, James. Let’s not go there. Let’s keep playing.”

Again, Kirk is met with the same resistance: _No._

“Look, James, it’s not the end of the world. You wanna go back to the bus and drink? Let’s do that. You don’t have to keep playing if you don’t want to. Just ditch the attitude, man. It sucks.”  
“Yeah, well, if our bassist hadn’t fucked up the intro to _Horsemen_ we wouldn’t be having this conversation, now would we?”

Everything goes so quiet that Jason swears he can hear two sets of jaws hit the ice. His eyes shift from Kirk to Lars, then back to Kirk, then back to Lars—both men are staring in wide-eyed horror at their bandmate.

“Jesus fucking _Christ,_ James, he has a name,” Lars admonishes, throwing his hockey stick down and skating in closer to the blond. The Dane narrows his eyes and gestures with a hand in Jason’s direction. “And he’s standing _right fucking there._ Show some fucking respect, will ya?”  
“That's _rich_ coming from you, but whatever.”  
“ _Whatever?_ God, James, can’t you ever just own up to your mistakes? We agreed that it was four china hits and then we jump into _Horsemen,_ and ‘ _our bassist’_ did a fucking _stellar_ job, _”_ Lars grinds his chewing gum with the same mercilessness being offered to James. “It wasn’t Jason’s fault the intro got fucked. It was _y_ _ours,_ Het.”  
“He was noodling on his bass beforehand; I couldn’t hear the china cymbal because of whatever the fuck was coming outta his amp head. Fuckin’ distracted me.”  
“Sure, Het, we all know you were too fuckin’ _drunk_ to hear the china hits.”

Now it's James's turn to go on the defensive—Lars has him with his back against a wall and he knows it. Blue eyes shift from face to face to face and Jason watches the muscles of his jaw clench and unclench as he calculates his next move. He tosses his stick away and straightens his posture.

“Dude, _fuck_ you,” James bristles with the same aggression as an animal backed into a corner. And, just like an animal backed into a corner, he’s about to bite. “Just… _fuck you._ It would be different if Cliff were here. We wouldn’t be having this problem if Cliff were here, and you know it.”

His comment is like a vacuum, totally sucking the air out of their lungs.  
Lars, Kirk, and Jason go completely stiff—all three are at a complete loss for words.

Jason’s world becomes silent and muffled. He makes brief eye contact with Lars; the drummer turns to send him an apologetic look from over his shoulder before switching his attention to the vocalist, skating up to him, and closing the gap between them. He balls his little hands into fists and stares up at the blond with the same resolution and contempt as David about to take on Goliath.

“James. Brother. I love you, but…just. _Stop._ I’ll say this once, only once, and I won’t say this again, because you should _know_ this by now—but _Cliff isn’t fucking here._ No amount of griping will bring him back. No amount of pining will bring him back to fucking life. For fuck’s sake, James. Cliff is gone. I don’t know how badly you need to hear this, but Cliff _fucking died,_ James. He’s _gone. He's not coming back."_

The drummer’s voice strains against itself, cracks and breaks as he tears into James because it's true—this is just as hard for himself and for Kirk as it is for James. Grief has its razor claws in all of them, but James is the only one who has allowed it to completely consume him and now Lars is determined to reel him back before he sinks and drowns in it completely. He continues his tirade, all while the vocalist just looks down his nose in condescension, but Lars persists. Never during this tour had Jason expected the drummer to go up to bat for him, and yet…here he is, fighting James for an ounce of respect, not for himself—but for _him._

“Look at him, James!” Lars carries on, signaling at Jason with a pointed finger. “Fucking _look_ at him, look at his face! He fucking _loves_ you, James. For fuck’s sake, all you’ve done— _continue_ to do—is just drag him through the fucking dirt because you can’t have Cliff back. Guess what, Het? You’re not the only one who misses Cliff. We _all_ fucking miss Cliff! But you need to stop _fucking hurting Jason._ Don't you even feel an _ounce_ of guilt for how you've treated him, or has all of your common sense been too diluted by Smirnoff to put one and fucking one together?"  
"Oh that's _real_ cute. You think you're not guilty of the same shit, Ulrich?"  
"Not like you, James! You've been treating Jase like _dogshit,_ man. You've been a total dick about this entire thing, and now you're blaming him for something that happened before he even _joined the fucking band."_  
“You said yourself when we offered the job to Jason that he was just a stand-in, you little Danish twat,” James fires back with full-force. The power of a grenade exploding is packed behind his words and he’s not about to relent. “You said he was nothing more than a hired gun. Fuck, man, you wanted to fucking _fire_ him last week! What gives? We talked about this! And now suddenly _I'm_ the bad guy? Go fuck yourself, dude!"

Lars snags James by the elbows and shakes; James retaliates by throwing his weight against the smaller man, and then Kirk is throwing himself into the mix, trying to wedge himself between the pair and not succeeding. They’re about to escalate the whole ordeal into a knock-down drag-out brawl when a voice pierces through the air like a rifle-crack.

“Fucking _stop!!!"_

The three freeze in place and slowly, _slowly_ turn their heads to see Jason: shoulders hunched, fists curled, chest heaving.

“Just…fucking… _stop._ You guys have made your point clear. _I get it_ ,” his voice wobbles as he fights to hold his composure together. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m not Cliff. But I’m done here, man. I’m done. You three can go off and do whatever the fuck you want, it's clear that the only people you give a shit about are yourselves. I’m going to the bus. Don’t fuck with me when you guys get back. Don’t bother me until it’s time for soundcheck.”

He throws down his hockey stick and skates to the edge of the rink; silently, he slips through the gate, returns his skates at the coat check, and disappears, leaving his bandmates wondering if everything they’ve done up until now has really been for the benefit of the band—or simply for the sake of themselves.

Nobody bothers him until soundcheck.

During that night's set, James is more than aware of the four china hits that signals the start of _Horsemen._ They play it flawlessly.

After the show, Jason is nowhere to be found.


	18. 12.19.1986

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are. The moment everyone has been waiting for--well, at least one of them. Teehee.  
> Not much to say except thank you for sticking around with me on this ridiculous project since April. I didn't expect everything to drag out for this long, but as we all know, real life gets in the way sometimes (Like, i've quit a job, moved houses, been hired, been laid off, been rehired, all in the span of the last 30 days. Shit's wild, man).
> 
> Hopefully this chapter doesn't disappoint; I've been anticipating it just as much as y'all've.  
> And, as usual, please enjoy.

**12/19/1986 – Vancouver – Post-show**

James finds him outside the bus, smoking on the curb and alone.

That’s been a developing trend lately with Jason. They play a show, do an interview, do _something_ that involves them being together and acting like a band, and then their bassist quietly slips away as soon as possible. They wake up in the morning and he remains locked away in his hotel room or relinquishes himself back to the safety of the tour bus. With Lars and Kirk’s ushering (and a great deal of self-loathing and wallowing in his own misery), James finally caves and goes to set the record straight and square up with his bandmate. What the vocalist _doesn’t_ expect, however, is for Jason to completely shut him down and put up a fight.

“So, come to give me more shit about how I’m not Cliff?” Jason’s opening remark hooks James from out of left field, suddenly and unexpectedly. The frontman was anticipating some degree of heels in the dirt from Newsted, but _aggression_? Not a chance in hell. And definitely not directed at _James._

“Fuck right off with the attitude, Newkid.”  
“No. Fuck yourself, Het.”

James roots himself where he stands and spits—He didn’t come here for lip service from Jason. He’s trying to apologise, for fuck’s sake, but the bassist is just being petty and belligerent.

“I came here to say _sorry_ and this is how you treat me? Good job, Jase.”  
“Like I can read your fucking mind? Now let me repeat myself: _Fuck yourself_ , Het. Go brood over how I’ll never be good enough for you.”  
“Look, if you wanna argue, then I’ll fucking argue, but I just came here to say _sorry.”_  
“No, James. You’re not here to say _sorry._ You’re here to make yourself feel better. You’re here to stroke your ego and reassure yourself that _I’m_ the one overreacting, like you always do.”

Hetfield wrinkles his nose.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. Seriously?”  
“Yeah. Seriously,” Jason’s stare is cold and deadpan. “Spare me your weak-ass explanation about how you’re so hurt and broken. It’s an automatic _get-out-of-jail-free_ card to treat me like a dick and I don’t like it, okay? Just fuck off _.”_

Jason rises from his seat on the curb and turns on a heel to make his exit, but James cuts him off. The two bump chests and when the bassist attempts to shoulder past, he’s met with a palm planted firmly into his sternum.

“ _You’re not leaving._ ”

Jason’s jaw hangs open as if loose on its hinges—is James for real? Slowly, the older of the pair begins to speak, choosing his words calmly and carefully because if he’s given any more reason to do so, he’s going to completely unleash.

“… _Excuse me?_ ”

He watches James’s nostrils flare—the blond is itching for a fight, that he can tell—and he tries his best to hold himself together. He just needs to escape back into the hotel or back into the bus, back into his bunk where he can draw the privacy screen around him and shut everyone else out, and let James simmer down to where they can have a civilised talk and hash things out like adults without coming to blows. He just needs to get past James, first.

“You heard me, _Newdick_. You ain’t going anywhere.”  
“Let me through, James.”  
“ _No.”_

The way the bassist rolls his neck and pops the joint is purely reflexive—he has a good idea of what’s about to come next.

“Fine. Have it your way,” Jason’s voice is hewn with a stinging edge and he crosses his arms against his chest. “What do you want from me? What could I _possibly_ give you right now that will nurse your bruised ego?”  
“Bruised ego? So, that’s your problem, huh?”  
“ _Problem?_ Are you fucking kidding me _?_ James, this whole ordeal was catalysed by your insecurities. Do I need to remind you of the fucking Cliff comment you made the other day? The one that stung, _real fuckin’ bad?_ ”  
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did that poke a sore spot?”

_So this is it, huh?_  
  
If James wants to unload, then this will be the last time. Jason straightens his posture and silently apologises to Lars, Kirk, and Bobby. He apologises to the boys in Metal Church because there’s no way he can do another leg of a tour like this. He apologises to Ray and Jan Burton, to his own mom and dad, and most importantly, he apologises to _Cliff_ because he’s unsure if he’ll be walking back onto that bus by the time he’s done saying his piece.

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, it _did_. You’ve been poking a sore spot for six fucking _weeks,_ James. Ever since I walked in that rehearsal room.”  
“That ain’t my problem,” James punctuates with a disdainful snort. “If I have to deal with it, then so do you. Toughen up and stop wearing your heart on your sleeve.”  
  
Jason squares his shoulders. Here it comes. He prays James is ready.

“Listen here, _asshole_. It’s not my fuckin’ fault that every night is like being tossed to the goddamn lions. It’s not like I can stop the droves of fans waiting to tear me apart for not being _Burton Part Two_. That I can deal with. But what’s really fuckin’ hard, however—“ the bassist stops to suck in a breath because his voice is cracking, “—what’s really, _really, astronomically, impossibly_ fuckin’ hard, and completely exacerbated by _you_ , is limping backstage after a show to three enormous dickheads waiting with folded arms to compare me to Cliff.”

There’s tears in his eyes now but he refuses to look away, too headstrong and stubborn to give up. His words cut deep and it’s apparent in the expression on James’s face that, _no,_ James was definitely _not_ ready for this to be unloaded on him.

“It’s like this all has been one giant fucking joke to you. Did you hire me to just for shits and giggles?”  
“Jason, I—“  
“Don’t fuck with me, Het. Don’t _fuck_ with me. I don’t want to hear your bullshit.”  
“It’s not bull—“  
“Like _fuck_ it isn’t,” Jason punctuates his statement with a sour laugh and wipes at his eyes with the back of a sleeve. He’s smiling and it’s stained with nothing but contempt. “That’s all it’s been since day one—Just a continuous stream of bullshit and dick-wagging. You wanna know what Bobby told me right after I signed the band contract?”

James does the smart thing for once and remains silent.

“He told me that you three would fuckin’ eat me _alive._ You have so many goddamn hangups over Cliff and yeah, that’s understandable—it’s been _two_ months since you put your boy in the ground, James— _Two_ —and that’s not nearly enough time to get the sad outta your system. But it’s not my fault that he’s not here. Do I blame you for being hurt? Absolutely not. Is what you’re doing healthy? Again, abso- _fucking_ -lutely not. It’s like you three jumped to the bottom of a fucking Vodka bottle and decided to stay there. But I’m _this_ close,” Jason holds up two fingers, just inches from James’s nose. “I am _this_ close to calling a cab and telling Bobby to play bass, and telling you three to go _fuck_ yourselves. And if you even _think_ of begging me to stay, you better give me a good reason. A really fuckin’ _good_ reason.”

James looks like he’s seen a ghost. His eyes are wide, astonished, and the corner of his lip twitches ever so slightly as he fishes for the right words. He has to choose them wisely, because if he doesn’t… _well…_

“You can’t do this, Jason.”  
“ _Watch me_.”  
“The band…the band needs you.”

Jason freezes in place for just a second before cracking into a sad little smile. He wheezes out a laugh, breathless and exhausted, before taking a good step back and adding even more distance between himself and James, an invisible wall to further divide them.

“Oh my fucking _god,_ ” Jason tosses his head as he turns his back on the vocalist. He grips the railing of the stanchions that form a perimeter around the bus and leans over, head sinking past his shoulders as he inhales sharply and steels himself. When he wheels around on one foot to face the guitarist, the ice in his eyes is so sharp and cold that it chills James down to the core.

“Don’t you see what you’re fucking _doing,_ you narrow-minded, drunken dickhead? Can’t you just say fucking _sorry_ for once and actually mean it? _Ever_? Is it even part of your vocabulary? More so, can you even admit what you want to _yourself?_ ‘The band needs you’—don’t make me laugh, Het. We all know it’s not true. You could’ve had Les-fuckin’-Claypool on bass and you never returned his calls.”

James draws himself up; it’s his turn to go on the offensive now. He takes three steps in to close the gap between himself and Jason again and he needles a finger into the bassist’s collarbone.

“You fucking _prick._ After everything we’ve fucking done for you? This is what it’s all about?”  
“ _Sorry_ , Het, pardon me for growing sick and tired of you bullshit. My bad. I swear to fucking god…”

Something flashes in Jason’s eyes and James picks up on it like blood in the water. He holds onto it and uses it to splinter the bassist further, because he’s one step from exploding and just needs him to pull the trigger.

“Oh, what’s that? You wanna hit me, huh? C’mon, you son-of-a-bitch, let’s square up,” he growls as he shifts his weight from foot to foot, cracks his knuckles out in front of him and rolls his neck. He’s just itching for a fight, because this is what he knows. This is how it was with Dave, this is how it was with his father, his siblings, and this is how it is for _himself._ He’s not smart, but he’s _strong_ , and if that gets him where he needs to go, then so be it. The use of brute force to get what he wants is _not_ above him.

“I’m not hitting you, James.”

James curls his bottom lip as he pinches his expression into a scowl—why the _fuck_ is Jason suddenly so levelheaded about all of this? He’s so nonchalant about it that all it does is just makes his blood boil in his veins. Why is the bassist suddenly being so vehemently passive and non-violent about this whole ordeal? The notion itself is infuriating and James takes another stab at him, hoping to provoke a response.

“So you’re gonna be a little bitch-boy about it? Hit me, asshole.”

Again: nothing but calm collection. Jason’s eyes are as placid as still waters and they leave James wondering just what changed.

“I’m _not_ fucking hitting you, James.”  
“Fucking hit me.”  
“I’m _not fucking hitting you_ , James.”  
“God-fucking- _dammit_!” James is shouting now, voice cracking from the strain, growing more frustrated as he realises his tactic isn’t working. “ _God,_ Jason, I wish you _would_ just fuckin’ hit me, because then I’ll at least know how to fuckin’ deal with it.”

Jason is silent. James is silent. Their gazes still locked, the bassist can see the cold fury behind the blue of his bandmate’s eyes. Something is turning over within him; a breakpoint has been reached and it’s all coming crashing down upon James, burying him under its weight. Slowly, Jason clasps the hand drilling its finger into his chest and guides it away. He feels that it’s shaking, trembling with the same uncertainty that’s making his own breath quiver and flare.

“ _No.”  
_ “…Why not?”  
“ I don’t want to hit you, James…I just want you to say you’re sorry.”

James says nothing—does nothing—but Jason can see the fire in his eyes start to die down; the embers that remain are still capable of burning, but continue to smoulder with just as much raw energy.

Admission was never James’s strong point.  
  
James is all too aware of this and it feels like trying to outrun the sun—run, run all he likes, but in the end it’ll always come back up behind him to catch him in the end. He’s sang this song, danced this dance far too many times to know how it all pans out in the end.

But this time, there’s an exception. There’s too much at stake.

He breaks.

“You know,” He starts and just from the mere inflection of his words it’s easy to glean that he’s about to fold in two. “I _hated_ how much you loved us when we hit the road two months ago. I absolutely despised it, and yeah: _it’s fucked up_. There’s a reason we all gave you so much shit while we toured in Japan, while we tour now. You made it so clear that you were a huge Metallica fan, and we all just wanted to _unfan_ you. But it doesn’t stop there: I was a huge dickhead not only because you were some starstruck kid, but you were also something fresh and new and innocent, something that hadn’t had to go through the shit we went through, and _I resented_ that.”

Jason remains quiet because that’s what James needs from him. It hurts hearing all of this—terribly so—but if there’s any chance of James finally starting the healing process, then this is it. He needs to purge. He’s been bingeing and bingeing and bingeing for so long. It needs to come out.

“I hated how happy you were, I hated how in love with Metallica you were, but most of all, I hated how you _weren’t Cliff._ You were just some fanatical punk who happened to practise his bass enough to get the gig and I didn’t put any more thought into that, because _I didn’t want to_. You were just a Burton stand-in, from our perspective; Just a patch on a gaping wound we refused to fill, and I thought that by doubling-down and going extra hard on you we’d be able to beat the fan outta you. That you’d get toughened up real quick and get hardened and sour like the rest of us. And I couldn’t have been more wrong.”

The vocalist stops to suck in a breath because it’s hitching now and Jason picks up on the faintest wobble.

“And then, suddenly—you became an escape. You’d listen to me. You were always there for me to unload when I needed to. _Fuck_ , man, you wouldn’t even talk back when I’d purposely press your buttons or turn a blind eye to the way Lars and Kirk were constantly razzing you. And even with all that shit piling on top, you still gave me the time of day, even though I didn’t deserve it—you gave me a fuckin’ chance, and all I’d do is use you when it was only convenient for me and then shove you back down in the dirt, and I can’t believe I’ve let myself get away with treating you like total shit. And if that wasn’t fucked enough, the moment you stood up for yourself, I just pretended like nothing was wrong, like there weren’t’ any problems, and that wasn’t just dickheaded but so, so unfair to you. I fucked up.”

His voice cracks but he still lifts his eyes to meet Jason’s anyways, and they’re reddened and wet.  
Everything flashes back to him all at once.

Suddenly, he’s a young boy. His mother is explaining to him that his father has gone on a long, long trip. He doesn't understand why.  
Then he’s sixteen. The coroner hands him a stack of papers. “You’re the head of the house now, son. Good luck.”  
Now he’s nineteen. Tears fall into his lap as Lars pulls the rental car into the transit station. He can’t even find the courage to tell Dave goodbye as he slips out of the back seat, greyhound ticket in hand.  
He’s twenty-three. He’s standing out in the darkness in his underwear. He can still see legs like snapped sticks jutting out from under the bus. He never had the chance to tell Cliff how he felt.

He’s twenty-three. The man he’s grown to love is about to walk away.

“I fucked up, Jason. I seriously, truly fucked up.”

James swallows his pride and extends a hand because he’s been in this situation before and he’s _not_ about to let this one slip through his fingers. Not again.

“And I need to let you know that I’m sorry. And I need to let you know that it’s not just the band that needs you.”

_Here it comes._

“I need you, too.”

And Jason takes it.

They finally meet in a crushing embrace.

Jason is crying into his shoulder now, his hands gripping tight around the denim of his sleeves, crying and sobbing and heaving and James can’t hold it in anymore, either. Everything that’s happened up to this moment loops back in and collapses upon itself in his mind’s eye—he recalls the first night he slid into Jason’s bunk and poured his heart out, he recalls the countless confrontations ( _What are we, James?)_ , he recalls the fistfights, he recalls the nightmares, and how Jason still never once told him to leave—all of it, every emotion bubbles up and tears into him with razor teeth, leaving him broken and bleeding and hurting.

This constant cycle of exploding and reloading has worn them down and forced them to finally bare what they’ve been hiding to one another, to peel their skin and flesh and muscles back and expose the delicate and bleeding hearts they’ve guarded behind walls they built so impossibly high, and to finally see each other through a clearer lens, eye to eye. Now that the dust has finally settled, it’s just the two of them—exposed and afraid and alone—and if Jason is here to take the pain away, then James is ready. He’s finally, truly, honest to god ready, and after waiting for what’s felt to be a thousand years, he finally allows himself to circle his arms around Jason, bury his face in his russet curls, and just _cry._

It’s like bleeding out the venom—everything came to this sweltering head and now it’s time for the purge.

“I’m _sorry_. _I’m so, so sorry.”_

Jason doesn’t need him to say any more. He knows, _he knows,_ and he can’t keep it in. He lets tears flow freely as he clasps a hand to the back of James’s head, cards his fingers through his hair, and gives the vocalist all of the time in the world to let it all out. It’s just the two of them now, exposed and afraid and alone.

_"_ You fucking idiot _,”_ Jason heaves between sobs, gripping tighter. “You fucking _idiot,_ it’s _stupid_ how much I love you. And that’s all I wanted. I just wanted you to say you’re _sorry.”_

James is incapable of answering; logic, reason, words themselves all escape him and the only thing he can do is cling tighter to his bandmate, hold on like it’s the last thing he’ll do because they’ve been riding out this storm for so long, and he’s ready to come home. He feels like a ship finally coming back to the harbor after being lost at sea for an eternity and Jason welcomes home with open mind, open arms, open heart.

“It’s stupid how much I care, and how much I just want to see you grow, and heal, and—“ the bassist sucks in a breath, “—and just _be_ with you, and you won’t fucking let me.”  
“I’m sorry.”  
“You don’t need to say _sorry_ anymore, James _,_ I just want you to let me in.”

James knows it’s time. He knows he’s kept up the walls for too long. It’s time to lay down his sword, time to stop baring his fangs, time to sheath his claws. It doesn’t mean going belly-up or surrendering, it doesn’t mean forfeiting his autonomy—it just means it’s time to _rest._

Because, eventually, even stars burn out.

When the demons have been purged, when they’re done spilling themselves inside out, they lift their heads and allow their gazes to meet. They find galaxies within each other’s eyes, fathomless and deep, and it’s only a matter of seconds before they lean in and press their lips together and it feels like worlds colliding.

It’s hard not to completely melt into each other—so they give in, surrender, and do just that— _melt.  
_ And, suddenly, James isn’t so afraid anymore. Everything he’s fought so hard against, every wall and barricade he’s erected thaws and drips away like water. Jason’s touch is more than warming—it’s _healing._

After a quiet moment, the bassist finally breaks the kiss, gasping for air as if he’s been diving in the sea for too long. He curls his fingers into James’s sleeves, pulls him in as tight as he can without becoming overbearing.

“Will you let me in?”

A pause, and then:

“Yes.”  
“And will you let me love you?”

Another pause, but unlike every other time before, Jason doesn’t find reluctance or doubt in James’s silence. He finds peace.

“… _Yes_.”

He presses one last kiss against James’s lips. It takes like salt and smoke but it’s soft and James wouldn’t want anything else.

“Thank you.”

The air outside bites with cold teeth and it becomes evident they’ve been out for too long—snow is starting to fall, dusting them with a fine powder. A toss of the head in the hotel’s direction is signal enough to James that it’s time to go inside and finally exist together without inhibition, without resentment, without jealousy or spite or grief. The guitarist gives him a quiet nod and, wordlessly, finally allows the bassist to steer him in the right direction. It feels like he’s finally coming home.

Fingers laced tightly between James’s, Jason leads him by the hand back to the hotel, down the hall, to his room, and this time, James happily follows him into the dark.


End file.
